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New   Books 

BY 

Anna  Cora  Ritchie   (Mowatt). 

Fairy  Fingers 

The  Mute  Singer, 

The  Clergyman's  Wife. 


*#*  These  volumes  are  all  issued  handsomely 

bound  in  cloth,  and  will  be  sent  by 

mail,  postage  free,  on  receipt 

of  price,  $1.75, 

BY 

Carleton,    Publisher, 

New  York. 


THE  CLERGYMAN'S  WIFE 


AND  OTHER  SKETCHES. 


A  COLLECTION  OF 


PEN   POETEAITS   AND    PAINTINGS. 


BY 

ANNA  CORA  RITCHIE  (MOW ATT). 

AUTHOR   OF   "FAIRY    FINGERS,"    "THE   MUTE    SINGER,"    "THE    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

OF   AN   ACTRESS,"  "MIMIC    LIFE."    "TWIN    ROSES,"  " ARMAND," 

"FASHION,"  &c. 


"  Life  means,  be  sure, 
Both  heart  and  head, — both  active,  both  complete, 
And  both  in  earnest.     Men  and  women  make 
The  world,  as  head  and  heart  make  human  life."    ACEOBA  LllOH. 


<& 


•        •  • 


NEW     YORK: 
G.    W.    C&ftZ&TOJY   &    CO.,    Publishers. 

LONDON:  S.  LOW,  SON,  &  CO. 
MDCCCLXYLI. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1867,  by 

MARY    G.    THOMPSON, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of 

New  York. 


J.  E.  FARWEIX  &  CO., 

Stereotypers  and  Printers, 

37  Congress  St.,  Boston. 


CONTENTS 


The  Clergyman's  Wife, 9 

The  Beauty  of  Age,           .                 24 

The  Step-Mother, 29 

Make  the  Best  of  It;  or,  Fairy  Gifts,          ....  34 

The  Sculptor's  Triumph, 44 

The  Coquette, 63 

The  Married  Flirt,            70 

An  Old  Maid, 81 

A  Plethora  of  Happiness, 87 

Angel  Children,          .'                          105 

Anticipations  and  Realities  of  a  Children's  Party,     .        .  120 

It  might  be  Worse, 136 

Too  good  a  Housewife, 145 

The  first  Gray  Hair, 155 

Charades, 163 

Serena, 183 

He  could  not  say  "No." 193 

Who  are  the  Great  ? 198 

Prudentia, 206 

Croakers, 213 

The  Gaem  of  Scandal, 220 

Grumblers, 225 

Mrs.  Grundy's  Mission, 230 

Tactless  People, 235 

Original  People, 240 

m 


Ml.04.383 


8  CONTENTS. 

Nervous  People, 245 

Sensitive  People, 254 

Passing  Words, 259 

Count  tour  Blessings, •  263 

Spare  Moments, 267 

Our  Lots  in  Life, 271 

Responsibility, 276 

The  Unadmiring, 280 

The  Capacity  for  Enjoyment, 286 

The  Love  Of  Excitement, 290 

Maidenhood  in  Love,          ........  295 

Bachelorhood  in  Love, 304 

Woman-Friendships,            310 

Congeniality, 315 

The  Love  of  the  Beautiful, 319 

The  Sunny  Side, 323 

Black  Days, 327 

Bashfulness, 331 

Preaching  and  Practising, 335 

Forgiving  not  Forgetting, 339 

Fault-Seekers,             343 

Books, 347 

Long  Engagements,     ....*....  350 

Perils  of  Prosperity, 355 

Manner  Mutations, 360 

Kindness, 364 

Looking  Back, 369 

Wifely  Help, 374 

The  Trustful, 377 

Rest, 380 

Golden  Links  of  Kindred, 383 


TIIE  CLERGYMAN'S  WIFE. 


(T  was  a  fruitful  subject  for  wonder,  spec- 
ulation, and  gossip,  when  Amy  Morton 
bestowed  her  hand  upon  Ethan  Mildmay, 
the  youthful  pastor  of  an  unpretending  flock,  in  a 
remote  New  England  village.  Mr.  Mildmay's  sal- 
ary was  very  small,  and  his  worldly  prospects  gave 
no  large  promise.  Moreover,  his  health  was  far 
from  robust,  for  the  nervous  activity  of  his  mind 
too  often  exhausted  his  physical  strength,  paled  the 
glow  of  his  unrounded  cheek,  shadowed  his  mus- 
ing eyes  by  the  drooping  of  weary  lids,  and  left 
his  form  too  slender  for  its  exceeding  height. 

Amy  had  been  delicately  nurtured.  In  the  home 
she  left  for  Ethan's  she  had  been  surrounded  by 
every  desirable  luxury.  Her  sunny  sweetness  of 
temperament  made  her  the  gladdening  centre  of  a 
large  social  circle.  She  enjoyed,  too,  what  people 
are  apt  indefinitely  to  call  "  the  world."  She  took 
pleasure  in  travelling,  she  delighted  in  merry 
gatherings,  she  joined  in  the  dance  with  spirit, 
she  appreciated  literature  and  art,  a  fine  concert, 
a   good    play,    a    grand    opera.     The    sanctimon- 

(9) 


10  The    Clergyman  s   Wife. 

ious  pronounced  her  by  no  means  good  enough  for 
a  clergyman's  helpmate,  and  the  worldly  declared 
her  far  too  shining  and  attractive  for  the  wife  of  a 
poor  pastor. 

No  striking  symmetrical  regularity  rendered 
Amy's  face  or  figure  remarkable.  The  latter  may 
be  described  by  the  brief  designation  of  "  trim." 
The  superlative  charm  of  the  former  consisted  in 
a  pair  of  deep  blue  eyes,  shaded  by  singularly 
black  lashes.  It  was  a  countenance  that  involun- 
tarily reminded  you  of  Wordsworth's  lines  — 

"  Gladsome  spirits  and  benignant  looks, 

That  for  a  face  not  beautiful  did  more 
Than  beauty  for  the  fairest  face  could  do." 

But  Amy's  voice  had  a  spell  that  far  surpassed 
the  power  of  exterior  loveliness,  for  it  gave  an 
irresistible  assurance  of  the  most  varying,  most 
harmonious,  most  eloquent  internal  beauty.  Those 
tones  were  literally  spoken -music,  and  penetrated 
at  once  to  the  heart.  When  they  were  sorrowful, 
their  pathos  might  have  drawn  tears  from  a  listener 
who  could  not  comprehend  the  words  uttered,  and 
when  they  were  glad,  the  gushing,  matinalsong  of 
the  lark  is  not  more  purely  joyous. 

Yet  Amy's  vivacity  was  never  boisterous.  It 
was  combined  with  a  soft  repose  of  manner,  sugges- 
tive of  reserved  power  that  only  waited  develop- 
ment through  life's  coming  demands  for  action. 

Coleridge  declares   that   ""the   perfection   of  a 


The    Clergyman  s   Wife.  11 

woman's  character  is  to  be  characterless."  We 
think  his  somewhat  startling  assertion  admits  of 
interpretation.  When  all  the  attributes  that  com- 
pose a  character  are  in  such  complete  unison  that 
they  form  a  smooth  and  lovely  whole,  without  the 
sharp  prominence  of  any  one  trait,  perfection  is 
approached.  This  coherency,  this  harmony,  this 
perfect  balance  characterized  Amy's  mental  organ- 
ization. 

Amy  had  only  one  answer  for  those  alarmed 
relatives  and  friends  who  came,  with  their  worldly 
reasonings,  to  convince  her  of  the  folly  of  her  choice. 
An  answer  full  of  maidenly,  uncalculating  sim- 
plicity. She  loved  him,  she  replied ;  he  was  the 
only  man  who  had  the  power  to  inspire  her  with 
love ;  when  he  asked  her  for  her  heart,  he  only 
claimed  that  which  was  already  his  own. 

Amy's  attachment  was  not  the  capricious,  evan- 
escent, unaccountable  emotion  which  is  falsely 
dignified  as  "  love  ;  "  not  that  mere  physical,  sen- 
suous attraction  which  makes  so  many  women 
cling  to  men  they  know  not  why.  Amy  loved  the 
attributes  of  her  lover's  soul,  the  qualities  of  his 
mind  and  heart  that  make  up  the  true  man  and 
shine  through  his  exterior.  She  knew  what  she 
loved. 

As  to  Ethan  Midmay's  ill  health,  which  was 
urged  as  one  objection  to  her  union  with  him,  it 
only  awakened  her  tenderness ;  and  the  smiling 
patience  with  which  bodily  infirmities  were  borne 


12  The    Clergyman  s  Wife. 

endeared  him  more  and  more,  until  through  his 
very  suffering  he  became  sanctified  in  her  eyes. 

True,  he  was  poor,  but  she  had  often  heard  him 
say  that  to  every  one  of  God's  creatures  as  much 
or  as  little  worldly  wealth  is  allotted  as  can  be  of 
spiritual  benefit.  Much  to  those  whom  much 
would  profit  in  some  manner  which  the  all-wise 
Giver  alone  comprehends,  and  little  to  those  who 
would  more  rapidly  gain  spiritual  riches  through 
the  scantiness  of  their  worldly  possessions.  He 
had  taught  her  that  there  were  no  such  words  as 
accident  and  chance  with  God,  and  that  all  things 
were  ever  working  together  for  the  good  of  those 
who  love  the  Lord.  How  then  could  Ethan's  pov- 
erty be  regarded  as  an  evil  ? 

Let  friends  say  what  they  might,  Ethan  and 
Amy  felt  that  they  were  not  unsuited.  The  hap- 
piness of  marriage  lies  more  in  the  fitness  of  one 
being  for  companionship  with  another,  than  in  the 
actual  qualities  with  which  either  one  is  endowed. 
The  bond  between  Ethan  and  Amy  sprang  from 
this  mental  adaptedness,  and  caused  a  transfusion 
of  mind  which  could  not  be  otherwise  than  pro- 
ductive of  felicity.  One  nature  seemed  the  com- 
plement of  the  other ;  each  was  incomplete  with- 
out that  perfecting  counterpart. 

Mr.  Mildmay's  parsonage  was  a  tiny  cottage,  so 
greenly  veiled  by  a  network  of  vines,  so  closely 
belted  by  overshadowing  elms,  that  it  looked  like 
a  bird's  nest  peeping  out  from  its  leafy  canopy. 


The    Clergyman  s   Wife.  13 

This  picturesque  abode  was  encircled  by  a  small 
garden.  The  soil  had  been  so  carefully  enriched 
and  every  inch  of  ground  was  under  such  high  cul- 
tivation, that  the  narrow  circuit  yielded  a  wonder- 
ful profusion  and  succession  of  fruits,  vegetables, 
and  flowers.  He  who  labored  to  implant  good 
seed  in  human  hearts,  found  his  chief  relaxation 
in  the  culture  of  this  little  spot  of  earth,  and  a 
never-failing  enjoyment  in  pondering  over  and 
searching  out  the  divine  significance  of  its  varied 
products. 

To  this  sequestered  home,  far  from  the  care  and 
clamor  of  the  guileful  world,  Mr.  Mildmay  carried 
his  bride.  Amy's  domestic  capabilities  were  now 
called  into  full  play.  Her  knowledge  of  house- 
keeping was  limited  in  the  extreme,  but  she  had 
sound  sense,  aptitude,  ready  hands,  and  a  will- 
ing heart.  She  maintained  that  any  woman  of 
ordinary  intellect,  who  has  the  will,  can  become 
an  expert  and  thrifty  housewife,  and  she  soon 
exemplified  the  truth  of  her  declaration. 

Her  orderly  mind  systematized  and,  by  conse- 
quence, lightened  all  her  labors.  Household  avo- 
cations were  not  drudgeries  to  her ;  she  idealized 
them  by  the  remembrance  of  the  comfort  they 
secured  for  him  she  loved. 

She  had  the  gift  to  evoke  beauty  out  of  the  sim- 
plest combinations.  As  you  crossed  her  threshold, 
the  eye  was  charmed  by  the  most  tasteful  disposi- 
tion of  furniture,  light,  color  ;  by  picturesque  but 


14  The  Clergyman  s    Wife. 

inexpensive  adornments  ;  and  you  were  always 
greeted  by  the  penetrating  aroma  of  delicate 
flowers.  The  little  parlor  and  her  husband's 
study  were  invariably  decked  with  them.  She 
never  spread  the  table  for  meals  without  placing 
upon  it  a  tiny  vase,  freshly  filled,  or  a  basket  of 
moss  inlaid  with  expanding  buds.  Dishes  of  fruit 
were  usually  garnished  with  leaves  and  scented 
blossoms.  Indeed,  Amy  had  a  strong  propensity 
to  imitate  the  fanciful  culinary  achievements  of 
the  fair  Imogen,  who  cut  into  symbolical  shapes 
the  roots  she  cooked.  At  least  so  Ethan  used 
laughingly  to  tell  her  when  he  tasted  her  pre- 
serves. Many  a  jest  passed  between  the  pair  on 
the  subject  of  her  beautifying  touches,  for  Mr. 
Mildmay  was  as  cheerful  as  he  was  devout,  and 

"  They  sweetened  every  meal  with  social  glee." 

Amy  was  soon  valued  by  her  husband's  parish- 
ioners. She  mingled  with  them  as  constantly  as 
her  household  duties  permitted.  The  qualities  of 
heart  and  intellect,  the  cultivation  and  genial 
grace  that  had  made  her  the  delight  of  her  former 
social  sphere,  rendered  her  beloved  in  her  new 
position.  Her  prompt  sympathy,  her  quick  ap- 
preciation, her  cheerful  looks,  her  winning  man- 
ners, the  penetrating  melody  of  her  voice,  elicited 
spontaneous  confidence  and  won  involuntary  affec- 
tion. Every  one,  but  Ethan,  was  surprised  to  see 
how  quickly  she  became  acquainted  with  the  most 


The  Clergyman  s   Wife.  15 

unapproachable  of  his  flock,  how  confidingly  they 
talked  to  her  of  their  hopes  and  disappoint- 
ments, their  joys  and  sufferings,  their  struggles  and 
shortcomings,  and  with  what  unwearied  interest 
she  listened,  sympathized,  consoled  or  advised,  in 
tones  of  touching  sweetness  that  made  her  sim- 
plest words  impressive.  Thus  she  effectually 
aided  in  her  husband's  labors  for  their  welfare. 

Mr.  Mildmay  was  not  a  flowery  pulpit  declaimer 
of  the  sensation  school,  but  there  was  a  persuasive 
eloquence  in  the  truths  he  clearly  presented  to  the 
minds  of  his  hearers  which  had  a  more  perma- 
nently healthful,  a  more  regenerating  influence, 
than  the  most  exciting  sermon  that  ever  stirred 
a  congregation  into  enthusiasm  for  the  servant  of  the 
Lord,  without  raising  hearts  to  the  Lord  himself. 
The  young  pastor's  mien,  his  very  presence  calmed, 
encouraged,  and  elevated.  He  taught,  not  by  pre- 
ceptive wisdom  alone,  but  by  the  example  of  his 
life,  by  the  broad  charity,  the  love  for  others  by 
which  his  Master  had  said  his  disciples  should  be 
known.  Ethan  Mildmay  was  a  stranger  to  the 
morose  bigotry  that  dwarfs  the  mental  stature  of 
so  many  pious  men.  The  grandeur  of  his  own 
spiritual  breadth  and  height  enabled  him  to  reach 
the  hearts  of  not  a  few  whose  expanded  intellects 
rendered  them  inaccessible  to  a  narrower  grasp. 

The  religion  with  which  he  inspired  his  congre- 
gation was  not  made  up  of  mere  external  observ- 
ances and  empty  forms.     He  taught  them  that  the 


16  The  Clergyman  s   Wife. 

truths  they  heard  must  sink  into  their  hearts  and 
take  form,  and  spring  up,  and  come  blossoming  forth 
in  the  e very-day  acts  of  their  lives.  That  regen- 
eration is  not  the  result  of  a  moment's  violent  excite- 
ment, but  a  purifying  work  that,  once  commenced 
in  the  soul,  must  gradually,  steadily  progress  through 
a  whole  existence.  That  the  religion  of  a  true  ser- 
vant of  the  Lord,  a  true  member  of  his  church,  is 
made  up  of  Charity  as  inseparable  from  genuine 
Faith  as  the  heat  of  the  sun's  rays  is  from  their 
light.  A  charity  that  rejoices  in  finding  good  in 
others,  that  seeks,  (does  not  wait  for,  but  zealously 
seeks)  opportunities  of  serving  others ;  a  charity  that 
influences  every  word  man  utters  ;  every  thought 
that  flits  through  his  mind ;  every  purpose  of  his 
will ;  every  movement  of  his  life. 

The  piety  he  commended  wras  not  a  lip-service, 
chiefly  evinced  by  church-going  and  external  sanc- 
tity, easily  simulated  and  often  hollow,  void  of  all 
goodness  ;  it  was  not  the  so-called  "  renunciation 
of  the  world,"  but  a  life  full  of  good  deeds  in  the 
midst  of  the  world,  the  true  renunciation  in  re- 
nouncing the  evil  things  of  this  world. 

Mr.  Mildmay's  congregation  had  rapidly  increased 
since  his  marriage.  It  seemed  as  though  his  union 
with  one  so  thoroughly  congenial,  so  trustful  yet  so 
helpful,  had  rendered  his  manhood  more  complete, 
had  imparted  to  him  double  strength,  double  influ- 
ence, double  power  for  good. 

To  his  Sunday-school,  in  particular,  Amy  lent  the 


The  Clergyman  s   Wife.  17 

most  active  assistance.  Little  children  she  tenderly 
loved.  To  watch  and  foster  the  expanding  germs 
that  shoot  daily  in  a  young  child's  spirit,  was  to 
her  an  ineffable  happiness.  What  wonder  that  her 
heart  swelled,  almost  to  rapture,  when,  in  the  first 
year  of  her  wifehood,  the  precious  promise  of  ma- 
ternity was  accorded  her  !  How  full  of  grateful, 
tearfully  grateful,  delight  were  her  day  dreams,  as 
she  sat  plying  her  needle  upon  tiny  caps,  and 
dresses,  and  sacques,  and  picturing  to  herself  the 
little  wearer,  towards  whom  her  heart  yearned  with 
the  most  bounteous  love  ! 

She  felt  that  the  woman  to  whom  the  guardian- 
ship of  a  child's  immortal  soul  is  entrusted,  shares 
the  holy  office  that  angels  are  ever  discharging,  the 
guiding  of  young  feet  along  the  paths  that  lead  to 
heaven.  In  the  words  of  the  greatest,  wisest  of 
woman-poets,  that 

"  A  child  is  given  to  sanctify 
A  woman  ;  set  her  in  the  sight  of  all 
The  clear-eyed  heavens,  a  chosen  minister 
To  do  their  business  and  lead  spirits  up 
The  difficult,  blue  heights." 

And  now  the  hour  to  which  Amy  had  looked 
forward  with  so  much  tender  thankfulness,  was  at 
hand.  That  hour  was  one  of  more  than  ordinary 
danger.  For  two  days  her,  life  was  in  imminent 
peril.  Her  protracted  sufferings  were  borne  with 
womanly  heroism,  a  heroism  not  less  wonderful  be- 
cause it  is  not  rare.     On  the  morning  of  the  third 


18  The  Clergyman  s   Wife. 

day  a  son  was  born  to  her.  But  when  she  listened 
for  that  first,  faint  wail,  so  full  of  music  to  the 
newly  made  mother's  ear,  there  was  silence,  deep 
silence  in  the  chamber  ! 

She  turned  her  large,  blue  eyes  inquiringly, 
hopefully,  towards  those  that  surrounded  her  couch. 
There  was  no  gleam  of  answering  joy  in  the  looks 
that  met  hers,  every  face  was  blank !  With  a 
stifled  cry  of  anguish,  she  stretched  her  feeble  hand 
towards  her  husband,  and  her  white  lips  moved 
inarticulately. 

He  folded  her  tenderly  in  his  arms,  he  held  her 
close  to  his  swelling  heart  in  the  silence  of  inward 
prayer.  Then  as  the  tremulous  motion  of  the  form 
that  quivered  in  his  embrace,  slowly  subsided,  he 
whispered,  "  It  is  God's  will,  Amy ;  shall  we  oppose 
our  wishes  to  His  wisdom  \  " 

It  was  an  earthquake  shock  to  Amy,  the  sudden 
vanishing  away,  the  sliding  from  underneath  her 
feet  of  a  realm  of  hope,  a  world  of  happiness.  But 
her  husband's  calm,  instantaneous,  undoubting  rec- 
ognition of  his  Master's  will,  infused  fortitude  into 
her  stricken  spirit.  She  uttered  not  one  lamenta- 
tion, not  one  murmur. 

After  a  while,  in  a  low,  trembling  tone,  she 
begged  that  the  babe  might  be  placed  in  her  arms. 
The  little,  lifeless  form,  arrayed  in  the  white  robe 
upon  which  she  had  expended  so  many  hours  of 
delightful  labor,  was  laid  upon  a  pillow  by  her 
side.     With  what    eager   eyes    she     scanned  the 


The  Clergyman  s   Wife.  19 

features  of  that  cherub  face  !  They  seemed  very 
perfect,  very  lovely  in  their  marble  stillness  and 
whiteness.  Again  and  again  she  kissed  the  cold 
lips  that  had  never  breathed,  never  moved  to  draw 
nourishment,  and  thrill  with  joy  the  heart  on  which 
that  tiny  head  reposed.  For  hours  she  lay  gazing 
on  the  motionless  face,  and'  holding  the  icy  hands 
in  hers,  until  she  almost  fancied  they  grew  warm 
with  returning  life. 

At  length  it  was  needful  to  remove  the  corpse. 
Then  Amy's  frame  was  convulsed  with  sobs,  the 
fountain  of  her  tears  was  opened,  and  they  fell  in 
heavy  showers  upon  the  withered  bud  which  no 
such  rain  could  revive.  But  would  not  this  folded 
flower,  despite  its  untimely  earthly  blight,  expand 
in  the  gardens  of  the  Lord  ?  Was  not  the  jewel 
this  little,  perishing  casket  contained,  set  in  the 
crown  of  eternity  %  Parted,  not  lost ;  passing 
through  death  into  life ;  wherefore  should  Amy 
mourn  the  babe  that  had  only  "  gone  before  1  " 

Amy  recovered  her  strength  more  rapidly  than 
was  anticipated.  In  a  short  time  she  was  able  to 
take  her  former  place  in  the  household,  and  resume 
her  habitual  avocations.  Through  the  house  and 
through  the  garden,  her  melodious  voice  was  once 
more  heard,  chanting  all  day  ;  and  if  the  tones  were 
sadder  than  of  old,  they  were  not  less  sweet.  She 
seemed  but  little  changed,  though  at  times  a  cloud 
of  dreamy  pensiveness  overshadowed  her  young 
face.     But,  in    a    few  months,  it  was  brightened 


20  The  Clergyman  s   Wife. 

away,  for  again  that  holy  promise,  which  she  had 
welcomed  with  such  ecstasy,  was  repeated.  Now 
her  joy  was  mingled  with  strange  forebodings,  and 
depressing  fears,  yet  they  only  seemed  to  render 
her  yearnings  more  intense. 

When  the  hour  came,  her  illness  was  even  more 
severe,  her  sufferings  were  even  more  protracted ; 
but,  at  length,  her  expectant,  happy  ears  caught 
the  longed-for  sound,  the  cry  of  an  infant's  voice ! 
Very  feeble,  very  low,  and  yet  as  distinctly  heard 
by  her  as  the  peal  of  rejoicing  bells  by  a  royal 
mother  when  a  Prince  is  born  ! 

Amy  turned  to  her  husband  with  an  uncontroll- 
able burst  of  emotion.  What  was  the  meaning  of 
that  look  of  anguish  %  She  stretched  out  her  eager 
arms  for  the  infant.  Wrapped  in  its  little  woollen 
blanket  it  was,  at  once,  laid  in  her  bosom. 

Still  no  smile  in  her  husband's  half-averted  eyes, 
no  words  of  congratulation  from  his  trembling  lips. 
Oh  !  it  was  incomprehensible  ! 

She  heard  the  child's  faint  moans  ;  she  felt  the 
clutch  of  the  small  fingers  ;  the  quick  throbbing  of 
the  thread-like  pulses  ;  he  lived  !  he  breathed !  he 
was  hers ! 

The  moans  grow  fainter  and  fainter,  and  then 
fade  into  a  low,  hardly  audible  murmur  —  the  baby 
hand  relaxes  its  hold  —  a  strange  pallor  spreads 
over  the  tiny  face  —  the  lids  drop  heavily  over  the 
eyes  !     What  is  this  1     The  limbs  grow  rigid  —  the 


The  Clergyman  s   Wife.  21 

lips  are  white  and  still  —  the  breath  has  ceased ! 
Amy  holds  a  stiffening,  freezing  corpse  in  her 
arms ! 

This  trial  was  far  severer  than  its  precedent,  for 
at  the  very  moment  when  her  highest  hopes  were 
embraced  by  reality,  she  was  called  to  lay  them 
down,  once  more,  on  the  altar  of  Faith. 

And  that  trial  did  not  end  here.  The  voice  of 
one,  whose  medical  skill  and  wisdom  she  could 
not  doubt,  pronounced  that  she  could  never  again 
enfold  within  her  arms  a  living  child  of  her  own  — 
could  never  be  a  mother  !  That  crown  of  glory  she 
must  not  even  wish  to  wear,  or  the  rebellious  yearn- 
ing would  dim  the  lustre  of  a  more  unfading  crown 
prepared  by  angel  hands  for  the  head  that  bows 
with  unquestioning,  unmurmuring  submission  to 
the  will  divine. 

What  \  Should  the  walls  of  her  secluded  home 
never  echo  the  melody  of  a  child's  laugh  1  Should 
no  little  feet,  gambolling  among  the  flowers,  fly  to 
meet  her  at  her  coming'?  No  tiny  hand  charm 
away  her  cares  %  No  lisping  tongue  thrill  her 
heart  with  the  sound  of  the  sacred  word,"  mother  1 " 
Should  there  be  no  infant  soul  in  which  she  could 
plant  heavenly  seed  that  might  yield  a  celestial 
harvest !  No  !  no  !  no  !  Hard,  hard  indeed,  was 
it  to  say  "  amen,"  and  great  was  the  anguish  of  her 
truly  womanly  nature,  many  were  her  inward  strug- 
gles, her  tears,  her  prayers. 

She  leaned  more  helplessly  than  ever  before  on 


22  The  Clergyman's   Wife. 

her  high-hearted  husband,  and  bade  him  teach  her 
the  lesson  of  resignation  ;  bade  him  repeat  to  her, 
over  and  over  again,  that  all  which  God  orders  is 
well.  And,  with  his  fond  arm  about  her  waist, 
her  head  resting  on  his  shoulder,  and  his  kindly 
voice  dropping  words  of  wisdom,  like  healing  balm, 
upon  her  lacerated  spirit,  the  teachings  were  not 
in  vain.  She  found  inexpressible  comfort  when  he 
talked  to  her  of  the  state  of  their  two  angel  boys  in 
their  bright  home.  Upon  that  theme  she  dwelt 
untiringly,  and  soon  her  sorrow  was  hallowed  to 
her.  She  accepted  her  fate,  and  it  ceased  to  be 
terrible. 

11  The  darts  of  anguish  fix  not  where  the  sea 
Of  suffering  has  been  thoroughly  fortified 
By  acquiescence  in  the  will  supreme, 
For  time  and  for  eternity  ! " 

Her  health  was  restored  very  slowly,  and  she 
never  regained  her  former  strength  ;  yet  she  threw 
berself  into  active  employment  as  the  greatest  safe- 
guard against  the  melancholy  which  now  and  then 
would  steal  over  her.  Gradually  the  tranquil 
smiles  returned  to  her  lip.  Her  face  had  lost  some- 
thing of  its  joyous  look,  but  had  gained  a  holier 
expression  that  told,  of  the  chastening  of  grief,  the 
bruise  of  the  crushed  flower  that  drew  forth  greater 
sweetness. 

The  young  husband  and  wife  were  more  united 
than  ever.     The  link  that  childhood  forges  to  bind 


The  Clergyman's   Wife.  23 

the  hearts  of  married  partners,  grew  out  of  their 
mutual  bereavement.  Every  year  they  clung  to 
each  other  with  fonder,  more  helpful,  more  ab- 
sorbing love. 

The  movement  of  Amy's  life  was  very  calm,  but 
rounded  by  acts  of  steady,  systematic  goodness. 
Thus  was  born  that  heavenly  peace  which  springs 
from  the  conscientious  discharge  of  daily  duties, 
even  the  most  trivial,  and  thus  was  found  the  only 
true  nepenthe  ! 

Every  day  she  asked  herself  "  Has  my  existence 
bettered  some  other  life  to-day  1  "  "  Have  I  shared 
my  gifts  with  others  ]  "  "  Have  I  cheered  any 
troubled  heart?"  "Have  I  made  any  burden 
lighter,  any  discordant  spirits  more  harmonious  I  " 
And  few  were  the  days  upon  which  Amy  could  not 
answer  these  soul-searching  questions  with  thank- 
fulness. When  it  was  not  in  her  power  to  do  much, 
she  was  content  to  do  little,  if  in  that  little  she 
"  did  what  she  could  !  "  True,  she  was  never  fully 
satisfied  with  the  amount  of  good  achieved,  but 
what  large  nature  ever  is  \ 

In  spite  of  her  heavy  bereavement,  and  the  much 
coveted  blessing  forever  denied,  the  clergyman's 
wife  was  one  of  the  happiest  mortals  that  walked 
the  earth.  Could  any  being  adopt  Amy's  rules  of 
life  and  not  be  happy?  Truly  the  Kingdom  of 
God  is  "  within  us,"  and  well  has  it  been  said, 
"  God  has  two  dwellings ;  one  in  heaven,  the 
other  in  a  meek  and  thankful  heart." 


THE  BEAUTY  OF  AGE. 


LL  the  poets  who  ever  sang  have  chroni- 
cled the  loveliness  of  childhood,  of  youth, 
of  maturity  ;  but  the  beauty  of  old  age,  not 
less  alluring,  not  less  impressive,  and  far  more  rare, 
has  been  the  source  of  fewer  inspirations.  "  Beauty 
in  Age  1 "  cries  Youth,  his  bright,  disparaging  eyes 
flashing  dissent.  "  Beauty,  forsooth?  The  un- 
equivocal respectability  of  Age,  its  wisdom  some- 
times, its  claims  upon  our  reverence  occasionally, 
we  admit,  but  infirmity  and  Decay  are  the  hand- 
maidens of  Age,  they  were  never  yet  the  tire- 
women of  beauty ! " 

Listening  to  that  scoff,  an  image  rises  before 
our  mental  vision,  that  rebukes  Youth's  hasty  ver- 
dict; Age  stands  forth  invested  with  triune  beauty, 
physical,  mental,  spiritual !  It  is  the  picture  of  a 
Patriarch  serenely  counting  the  sands  of  his  eight- 
ieth winter.  A  noble  presence,  with  form  erect 
as  though  Time  had  felt  it  fruitless  labor  and  never 
essayed  to  bend  its  stateliness.  About  the  high 
and  meditative  brow  press  silver  locks,  silken  as 
childhood's  tresses.     The  dark,  genial  eyes  kindle 

(24) 


The  Beauty  of  Age.  25 

brightly  with  every  emotion.  The  lines  about  the 
finely  curved  mouth  tell  it  has  been  used  to  smile 
on  iron  circumstance,  ay,  these  eighty  years ! 
Every  furrow  upon  that  countenance  speaks  of  he- 
roic battles  with  misfortune,  ending  in  victories,  of 
perfect  faith  crowned  with  the  halo  of  peace,  of 
the  sympathetic  nature  that  looks  benignly  upon 
all  creation.  The  Patriarch's  step  has  not  lost  its 
firmness,  nor  his  voice  its  full,  melodious  tones,  for 
his  warm,  fervent  spirit  has  melted  the  frost  of 
Age's  winter  before  it  could  gather  on  his  heart 
and  paralyze  his  faculties.  The  movement  of  his 
life  has  ever  been  rapid,  impulsive,  energetic,  per- 
severing. His  hands  more  diligently  employed  in 
succoring  than  acquiring,  his  every  blessing  shared, 
his  worst  enemy  pardoned,  —  well  has  he  earned 
the  rare  attributes  that  distinguish  his  age.  Rich 
is  he  in  years,  aged  in  no  other  sense. 

And  yet  he  has  suffered  more,  perhaps,  than 
most  men.  He  has  known  the  sting  of  treachery, 
the  sharp  pinch  of  penury,  the  icy  touch  of  ingrati- 
tude, the  agony  of  bereavement !  A  single  stroke 
of  Fate  has  hurled  him,  in  an  instant,  from  the 
pinnacle  of  wealth  and  worldly  dignity  into  the 
abyss  of  poverty,  embarrassment,  and  what  would 
have  been  despair  to  weaker  men.  Again  and  again 
he  has  been  lifted  up,  he  has  achieved  great  suc- 
cesses, he  has  welcomed  Heaven's  good  gifts  in 
abundant  showers,  and  again  and  again  has  he  been 
cast  down  and  stripped  of  all.     Prosperity  essayed 


26  The  Beauty  of  Age. 

with  the  heat  of  her  meridian  sun,  Adversity  with  his 
freezing  winds,  to  rob  him  of  the  mantle  of  Faith 
in  God's  providence.  Vain  attempt!  He  only 
drew  its  folds  more  closely  about  him,  and  looking 
upwards,  murmured,  "  It  is  well !  it  is  well !  Even 
as  thou  wilt,  O  Lord ! "  Herein  lies  the  secret 
of  youthful  vigor,  of  unsubdued  buoyancy,  of  the 
capacity  for  enjoyment,  of  the  beauty  in  age  pre- 
served to  an  eightieth  year. 

Especially  we  love  to  recall  his  face  as  it  looked 
upon  a  memorable  celebration  at  which  we  were 
permitted  to  be  present.  Every  heart  beneath 
his  hospitable  roof  beat  gladly  upon  that  day. 
There  was  a  fete  in  honor  of  his  seventy-eighth 
birthday.  It  would  occupy  too  much  space  to  de- 
scribe the  joyous  festival ;  we  will  only  touch  upon 
the  opening  scene.  The  Patriarch  sat  beside  a  de- 
voted wife,  surrounded  by  a  host  of  sons  and  daugh- 
ters, grandsons  and  grand-daughters,  who  had 
flocked  from  their  distant  homes  to  gather  about 
him.  Many  friends,  too,  were  there,  some  whose 
dark  locks  had  whitened  side  by  side  with  his. 

Within  a  bowery  recess,  decked  with  evergreens, 
and  garlanded  with  festoons  of  natural  flowers,  be- 
hold a  group  of  lovely  children,  clad  in  white, 
with  flower-crowned  brows  and  radiant  faces.  In 
the  centre  stands  a  classic-featured  young  maiden 
of  but  nine  summers,  holding  by  the  hand  a  little 
sister  of  seven.  These  are  the  two  youngest  of 
the  Patriarch's  many  daughters,  the  last  roses  of 


The  Beauty  of  Age.  27 

his  long  summer.  The  knot  of  little  ones  that  en- 
circle them,  down  to  the  golden-haired,  blue-eyed, 
three-year  old  boy  and  girl  in  the  corner,  who  stand 
with  their  tiny  arms  clasped  about  each  other, 
are  his  grandchildren.  The  dark-eyed  child,  the 
central  star  of  this  youthful  galaxy,  in  a  voice,  dis- 
tinct, liquid,  and  full  of  genuine  pathos,  utters  the 
salutatory  lines  which  some  elder  sister  (given  to 
the  sin  of  rhyming, )  has  taught  her.  The  verses 
have  no  value  in  themselves,  yet  happy  tears  roll 
slowly  down  the  cheeks  of  the  Patriarch,  and  fall 
from  the  gentle  eyes  of  his  wife,  as  they  listen. 
And  friends  weep,  not  merely  because  the  sight 
moves  them,  but  because,  oh !  truly  because  they 
feel  and  are  melted  by  the  beauty  of  that  Patriarch's 
old  a«:e.  These  were  the  words  the  little  damsel 
uttered  with  such  touching  emphasis :  — 

Welcome  this  festive  scene  !  — this  glad  array 

Of  smiling  faces  gathered  here  ! 
These  friends  who  join  to  celebrate  the  day 

We  deem  the  happiest  of  the  year ! 
The  day  so  fraught  with  good  —  so  bless'd  of  heaven 

And  bless'd  by  thankful  hearts  on  earth  — 
For  seventy  years  and  eight  the  brightest  given, 

The  day  that  saw  our  father's  birth ! 

A  stately  tree  he  seems,  that  towers  high, 

Its  boughs  with  fruit  all  richly  laden, 
While  spring-time  blossoms,  such  as  you  and  I, 
(  To  her  little  sister, ) 

Its  topmost  branches  crown  and  gladden  ! 
Ah  !  many  blasts  —  ah !  many  tempests  loud, 

Have  battled  round  his  noble  head, 
And  shook  the  limbs  —  (the  trunk  they  never  bowed  —  ) 

And  desolation  round  them  spread  ! 


28  The  Beauty  of  Age. 

With  every  storm  the  tree  but  higher  sprang, 

As  nearer  heaven  it  strove  to  rise, 
While  birds  of  hope  amid  its  foliage  sang 

Their  cheerful  anthems  to  the  skies. 
Well  pleased,  the  Lord  of  the  great  vineyard  saw 

That  tree  obedient  to  his  will, 
And  bade  his  angels  guard  it  evermore 

From  gales  too  rude,  from  every  ill ! 

And  when  for  many  years  its  boughs  have  flung 

Protecting  shade,  a  refuge  sweet, 
O'er  hundreds  of  the  loved  ones,  old  and  young, 

Who  fondly  gather  round  its  feet ; 
While  every  heart  with  grateful  love  expands, 

Thanksgivings  from  all  voices  rise, 
He'll  bid  his  angel  host,  with  gentlest  hands, 

Transplant  that  tree  to  paradise  ! 

Far  distant  be  that  hour !     O'er  this  rejoice ! 

Devoted  wife  and  children  dear ! 
And  friends  and  kindred,  all,  with  blended  voice, 

Call  blessings  on  his  opening  year ! 
Let  sorrow,  cares,  be  all  forgot  to-night, 

In  honor  of  this  natal  day ; 
With  cloudless  hearts  and  brows  let  all  unite, 

And  homage  to  our  father  pay ! 


THE   STEP-MOTHER. 


^TEP-MOTHEE, !  Unmusically  jars  the 
word  upon  the  ear !  A  sense  of  some- 
thing harsh  and  chilling  strikes  against 
the  heart  at  the  sound.  The  vision  of  a  place 
usurped,  of  children  thrust  from  their  father's  knee, 
of  old  and  pleasant  ways  put  aside,  and  all  things 
rendered  strange  and  new  in  the  familiar  home,  is 
conjured  up  by  its  utterance. 

Let  that  not  be  !  thou  who  hast  borne  a  step- 
mother's title  with  such  wondrous  grace  that  it 
becomes  ennobled  in  thy  person.  Give  it  melody, 
caught  from  the  music  of  thy  accordant  life  !  Stand 
forth  in  the  purple  light  of  my  thoughts,  draped 
with  the  sweet  and  sacred  memories  which  cling 
about  thy  lovely  presence,  that  I  may  paint  thee 
fitly.  If  the  lines  be  but  true,  the  tinting  faithful, 
the  portrait  thine,  it  will  wipe  away  the  long 
reproach  from  the  name  of  "  step-dame,"  and 
embalm  it  in  the  fragrant  aroma  of  gratitude  and 
reverence  and  most  tender  love. 

The  waves  of  twenty  years,  or  more,  have  melted 

3*  (29) 


30  The  Step-Mother. 

at  thy  feet  upon  the  shores  of  time,  since  first  with 
pleading  eyes  and  timid  mien,  thou  tookest  the 
place  a  sainted  mother  left  unfilled.  Her  children, 
not  ungraciously  —  it  may  be  with  forbearing  kind- 
ness —  made  room  for  thee  beside  the  crowded 
hearth ;  but  could  they  welcome,  even  the  best  of 
earth,  to  that  dear  seat  which  she  of  heaven  had 
sanctified  ?  No  voice  could  call  thee  "  mother  ; " 
the  tender  epithet  seemed  sacrilege  upon  her  chil- 
dren's lips.  The  stranger  was  respected  as  their 
father's  choice ;  for  his  sake  valued,  not  beloved 
and  honored  for  her  own. 

Was  not  thy  gentle  spirit  sad  and  ill  at  ease, 
sitting  among  those  half-averted  faces,  sons  and 
daughters  of  one  whose  holy  footprints  thou  hadst 
come  to  press  out  with  thy  faltering  feet  ?  They 
asked  not,  knew  not ;  the  hand  of  him  whose  wis- 
dom none  dared  question,  placed  thee  in  their  midst ; 
the  inevitable  was  accepted  as  the  endurable. 

How  mild  and  meek  thou  wert,  how  doubtful  of 
thyself,  how  all  unconscious  of  thy  own  surpassing 
virtues  !  So  unassuming  that  thou  could'st  not  think 
the  noblest  act  of  thine  was  better  than  the  common 
deeds  of  others.  Ever  blushing  at  thyself,  the  very 
wit,  that  flashed  upon  thy  lips,  because  the  bubbling 
fount  within,  could  not  repress  its  sparkling  gush, 
was  uttered  in  a  tone  that  might  escape  the  ear. 
Thus,  shrinkingly,  in  thy  new  orbit  didst  thou 
move,  thy  life  with  unpretentious  goodness  rounded. 

Soon,  very  soon,  the  holy  magnetism   that  en- 


The  Step-Mother.  31 

sphered  thy  soul,  was  felt  within  that  home.  One 
face  turned  lovingly  thy  way,  one  heart  expanded 
wide  to  let  thee  in,  one  little  hand  was  placed  con- 
fidingly in  thine,  one  guileless  head  pillowed  itself 
upon  thy  breast,  and  sought  a  mother's  lost  caresses 
there.  Childhood's  pure  instinct,  that  has  quicker 
knowledge  of  the  good  and  true  than  older  and 
more  dull  perceptions,  found  out  maternal  throbs 
in  the  "  step-mother's"  heart  and  proclaimed  them 
with  responsive  tenderness.  The  youngest  darling 
of  the  house,  she  who  had  been  lifted  up  to  sit 
upon  a  mother's  death-bed,  who  had  received  upon 
her  sinless  brow  the  glorifying  halo  of  a  mother's 
dying  smile  ;  (oh  !  precious  and  mysterious  benison 
that  has  illumined  and  enriched  her  life  with  mani- 
fold blessings  from  that  hour  to  this  !)  'Twas  she, 
that  little  child,  who  knew  and  loved  thee  first ! 
Quickly  another  and  another  face  turned  towards 
thee ;  another  and  another  heart  unclosed  to  let 
thee  in ;  another  and  another  hand  grasped  thine 
with  warm  and  trusting  clasp,  and  formed  a  sacred 
compact  never  to  be  broken. 

What  was  the  talisman  that  drew  those  alien 
hearts  until  they  moved  around  thine  own,  harmo- 
nious as  the  stars  about  their  sun  I  When  sickness 
stretched  some  frail  one,  of  that  group,  upon  the 
couch  of  pain,  thine  was  the  cooling  hand  upon  the 
throbbing  brow  ;  thine  the  voice  that  fell  in  sooth- 
ing cadence  on  the  ear  ;  thine  the  patient  minister- 
ing that  brought  relief  and  peace.     When  sorrow 


32  The  Step-Mother. 

bowed  another  to  the  earth,  thou  wert  the  first  to 
stoop  and  lift  the  fallen  head  upon  thy  knees,  and 
bind  with  skill  the  bleeding  wounds,  and  kindle  up 
thy  smile  of  hope,  until  it  melted  and  rolled  back 
the  mists  from  off  the  clouded  spirit. 

O  rare  combination  of  high  attributes,  that  formed 
the  setting  of  that  puissant  magnet-jewel  worn 
within  thy  breast !  A  forbearing  spirit,  lenient  eye, 
kindly  judgment,  quiet  dignity,  bending  humility, 
life-pervading  sweetness  of  Christian  charity  !  Sim- 
ple, womanly,  unconscious,  but  unfailing  magic  ! 

Ere  long  there  came  an  hour  to  test  the  strength 
of  thy  dear  witchery,  to  break  the  spell,  or  make  it 
stronger.  A  baby-daughter  came  to  lift  her  wail- 
ing voice  and  plead  for  infant  suffrages  ;  to  stretch 
her  feeble  arms,  demanding  her  full  share  of  the 
kind  father's  love ;  to  look  up,  wondering,  into  all 
those  faces  gathered  round  her  cradle-bed,  and 
claim  them  as  brothers  and  sisters.  Then  was  the 
newly-made  mother's  triumph  perfected  ;  then  was 
the  bond,  her  gentle  hands  had  woven,  tried  and 
cemented.  The  tiny  being  that  was  rocked  by 
throbs  of  such  tumultuous  gladness,  as  it  lay  upon 
her  breast,  was  welcomed  as  no  half  sister  in  her 
step-children's  love,  but  taken  wholly,  gladly  to 
their  unsealed  hearts. 

And  when  another,  and  another,  and  another 
cherub  girl  was  sent  to  swell  the  band  of  sisters, 
each  little  hand  soon  forged  a  new  and  shining 
link,  in  that  long,  golden  chain,  and  made  it  dearer, 


The  Step-Mother.  33 

as  it  made  its  circle  wider.  And  lips  that  could 
not  frame  the  hallowed  word,  when  thou  didst  cross 
that  threshold,  called  thee  "  mother  "  now,  and  felt 
it  was  no  wrong  to  her  in  heaven  ! 


MAKE  THE  BEST  OF  IT;   OR, 

FAIRY   GIFTS. 


HE  chamber  was  large  and  luxurious ;  the 
first  rays  of  morning  stole  through 
window  curtains  of  rose-colored  silk,  and 
diffused  an  auroral  hue  over  draperies  of  finely- 
wrought  lace,  that  canopied  the  bed,  where  a  youth- 
ful mother  reposed  in  that  pleasant  state  of  dreamy 
consciousness  when  the  mind  hovers  delightfully 
between  waking  and  slumber.  The  flushed  cheek 
of  a  sleeping  boy  was  pressed  to  her  own  ;  a  fair- 
featured  girl  nestled  closely  on  the  other  side ;  in 
the  richly  decorated  cradle,  standing  near  the 
couch,  slumbered  a  babe,  a  very  pearl  in  its  velvet 
casket.  So,  at  least,  the  young  Cornelia  thought, 
for  she  often  styled  these  three  precious,  human 
gems,  worn  with  happy  pride  upon  her  maternal 
bosom,  her  diamond,  her  ruby,  her  pearl. 

Few  steps  had  she  yet  taken  upon  the  journey 
of  life,  so  few  that  the  waves  of  time  had  not 
rolled  far  back  into  the  past,  the  days  when  she 
gave  credence  to  the  existence  of  those  diminutive 
"  good  people  "  called  fairies,  and  now,  in  her  semi- 

(34) 


Fairy  Gifts.  35 

somnolence,  that  half-forgotten  faith  washed  the 
shores  of  memory  again,  and  she  murmured,  dream- 
ily:  "  Oh !  if  some  fairy  would  bestow  upon  them 
each  a  wondrous  gift !  " 

Scarcely  had  she  spoken,  when  the  rose-light, 
that  tinted  every  object  in  the  room,  changed  to  a 
mellower  dye ;  prismatic  hues  flashed  fitfully 
through  the  golden  radiance,  gradually  forming 
themselves  into  a  rainbow  of  marvellous  vividness  ; 
and,  as  the  mother  steadfastly  gazed,  beneath  the 
resplendent  arch,  a  form  that  seemed  fashioned  of 
moonlight,  became  visible.  The  serial  shape  was 
clad  in  an  amethyst  robe,  its  unbound  tresses  rolled, 
like  a  mantle  of  molten  amber,  down  to  the  shin- 
ing feet ;  its  luminous  brow  was  crowned  with  a 
chaplet  of  lilies,  each  lily  a  living  opal.  Never 
had  Cornelia  beheld  a  countenance  so  touching,  so 
indescribably  lovely  in  its  holy  tenderness ;  as  it 
bent  over  her,  the  violet  iris  emitted  soft  rays  which 
penetrated  into  her  breast,  and  warmed  and  glad- 
dened her  heart. 

While  she  contemplated  the  celestial  presence, 
in  joyful  amazement,  a  voice,  like  the  sound  of 
zephyrs  sweeping  over  an  iEolian  harp,  charmed 
her  ear. 

It  said,  "  Your  wish  is  granted,  I  am  sent  to  ac- 
cord one  gift  to  each  of  these  sweet  slumberers." 

Rapture  rendered  the  mother  speechless. 

"  Speak  !  What  will  you  choose  1 "  asked  the 
unearthly  visitant. 


36  Make  the  best  of  it ;  or, 

Then  the  mother's  eyes,  which  had  been  riveted 
upon  that  beautiful  apparition,  turned  to  the  boy, 
her  eldest  born,  the  diamond  among  her  jewels ; 
and,  laying  her  hand  fondly  on  his  forehead,  she 
smoothed  back  the  tangled  locks  from  his  high,  in- 
tellectual brow.  Even  at  that  light  touch  he  start- 
ed ;  his  arms  were  tossed  above  his  head,  his  at- 
titude expressed  disquiet,  his  color  deepened,  then 
paled  again,  his  lips  moved  inaudibly ;  that  he 
possessed  a  nervous,  ardent  temperament,  it  was 
easy  to  divine. 

"  Give  him  genius  !  Great  genius  !  "  she  mur- 
mured fondly. 

What  delicious  perfume  stole  through  the  cham- 
ber ]     It  was  the  Fairy's  soundless  sigh. 

"  Ronald  shall  have  genius!  "  she  answered. 

"  What  gift  will  you  bestow  upon  your  daugh- 
ter I " 

The  mother  gazed  tenderly  upon  the  little  maid- 
en, slumbering  by  her  side,  the  ruby  of  her  car- 
canet.  Long,  black  lashes  swept  over  the  bloom- 
ing cheek  of  the  child,  dark,  clustering  ringlets, 
waved  in  shining  luxuriance  about  her  snowy  tem- 
ples and  throat,  a  half  smile  parted  the  exquisite 
mouth,  the  delicate  outline  of  a  symmetrical  form 
was  visible  through  the  white  raiment. 

"  She  will  be  a  woman  ;  give  her  beauty,  great 
beauty  ! "  said  the  mother,  enthusiastically. 

"  Cynthia  shall  have  beauty  !  "  replied  the  fairy, 
and  this  time  her  sigh  was  like  the  moan  of  a 


Fairy  Gifts.  37 

gentle  breeze,  and  again  her  breath  loaded  the  air 
with  fragrance,  like  the  aroma  of  a  crushed  flower. 

"  And  what  gift  will  you  bestow  upon  this  pearl 
of  purity? "  she  asked,  gliding  noiselessly  towards 
the  cradle. 

Love  unutterable  beamed  from  the  mother's  eyes 
when  they  rested  upon  that  snow-drop  of  infancy. 
As  she  hesitated  arid  pondered,  the  fairy  said, 
softly,  "  You  have  gifted  the  others,  leave  the  choice 
of  her  gift  to  me." 

"  Oh,  gladly  !  "  replied  the  mother,  "  but  let  it 
not  be  inferior  to  theirs." 

"  My  gift  to  little  Viola,"  responded  the  fairy, 
"  is  the  sweet  faculty  of  making  the  best  of  every- 
thing through  life  ?  Of  trials  and  sufferings,  as  of 
pleasures  and  triumphs,  she  shall  make  the  best !  " 

The  mother  half  started  from  her  pillow  with  an 
exclamation  of  disappointment  and  remonstrance, 
but  the  golden  light  faded,  the  effulgent  rainbow 
vanished,  the  unsubstantial  form  melted  away ;  the 
roseate  dye,  reflected  from  the  silken  curtains,  pre- 
vaded  the  room  as  before.  Cornelia  was  half  in- 
clined to  believe  that  she  had  slept,  and  the  sudden 
movement  had  awakened  her  from  a  delicious 
dream. 

Time  passed.  In  a  few  years  Roland  began  to 
be  regarded  as  a  prodigy.  His  talents  excited  gen- 
eral wonder  and  admiration.  He  drew  and  painted 
with  surprising  ease ;  his  musical  powers  seemed 
a  sort  of  instinct;  he  was  a  natural  poet,  too,  and 

4 


38  Make  the  best  of  it :  or, 

verse  flowed  spontaneously  from  his  lips  or  pen. 
Every  emanation  of  his  young  mind  bore  the  insig- 
nia of  genius,  and  loud  prognostics  of  future  celeb- 
rity were  constantly  trumpeted  in  his  ears.  But 
his  brain  was  taxed  to  the  exhaustion  of  his  vital 
powers,  and  his  health  grew  feeble.  He  was 
morbidly  sensitive,  untranquil,  unsatisfied.  Fickly 
ruled  by  the  feeling  of  the  moment,  impulse  was 
his  guide  ;  inclination  his  law.  When  the  task  he 
had  commenced  with  ardor  began  to  weary,  he 
threw  it  aside.  He  performed  on  several  instru- 
ments, but  chiefly  by  ear  ;  instruction  bored  him ; 
he  could  not  rein  down  his  high-soaring  genius 
with  the  needful  curbs  of  arbitrary  rules.  Now 
and  then  he  made  a  feeble  effort  to  acquire  skill  and 
correctness,  but  was  quickly  overcome  by  fatigue, 
and  often  left  the  instrument  in  disgust.  The 
necessity  for  application  always  disheartened  him. 
He  commenced,  with  enthusiasm,  sketches  that 
gave  great  promise,  but  seldom  finished  even  the 
best.  The  mood  had  passed  away,  he  said,  and  he 
could  not  work  when  the  spirit  was  not  upon  him. 
He  could  not  force  his  will,  nor  conquer  his  indo- 
lence. So  with  his  poems  ;  he  dashed  them  off 
rapidly,  in  a  species  of  poetic  furor,  but  the  gem- 
like thoughts,  scattered  carelessly  through  these 
rude  inspirations,  needed  polish  to  bring  out  their 
lustre,  and  he  could  not  tone  down,  condense, 
elaborate  ;  thus  his  fatal  facility  prevented  his  ever 
reaching  high  excellence. 


Fairy  Gifts.  39 

Not  less  remarkable,  nor  less  attractive,  was  Cyn- 
thia, through  her  extraordinary  beauty ;  a  beauty 
that  shone  forth  not  merely  in  her  faultless  linea- 
ments, her  superb  dark  eyes,  the  wealth  of  her 
abundant  tresses,  her  statuesque  form,  but  that 
seemed  to  permeate  her  whole  being  with  an 
unportrayable  witchery ;  a  captivating,  elf-like 
piquancy,  heightened  by  her  capricious  variability 
of  mood,  by  the  restless  grace,  which  resembled 
that  of  a  humming  bird,  fluttering  its  gorgeous  pin- 
ions before  the  dazzled  vision.  When  she  was 
pleased,  what  a  laughing  sprite  she  seemed  !  And 
who  was  able  to  resist  her  winsome  wiles  1  But 
alas  !  she  was  very  easily  displeased,  and  frowns 
gave  an  impish  character  to  her  chiselled  features, 
though,  strange  to  say,  without  destroying  their 
beauty.  Yet  one  thing  did  seriously  impair  her 
charms,  and  that  was  her  own  evident  conscious- 
ness of  their  power. 

Her  disposition,  under  ordinary  circumstances, 
would  have  been  good,  and  her  abilities  excellent, 
but  perpetual  flattery  weakened  her  intellect,  and 
rendered  her  temper  captious.  She  experienced 
an  insatiable  craving  for  adulation,  and  was  listless 
and  dispirited,  if,  by  chance,  the  unwholesome 
food  were  withheld. 

If  she  encountered  any  difficulty  in  the  pursuit 
of  a  desired  object,  she  was  quickly  discouraged, 
and,  without  the  faintest  struggle  to  conquer  the 
obstacle,  weakly  worried  and  wept  over  its  exist- 


40  Make  the  best  of  it ;  or, 

ence.  She  could  not  endure  disappointment  in 
any  shape.  If  a  party  of  pleasure  happened  to  be 
broken  up  by  the  rain,  she  conducted  herself  as 
though  she  were  convinced  the  weather  had  been 
ordered  expressly  for  her  annoyance,  and  fretted  all 
day  at  the  unsuitableness  of  the  atmospheric  decree. 
If  she  chanced  to  be  engaged  upon  a  piece  of  sew- 
ing, embroidery,  or  knitting,  that  pleased  her,  and 
her  thread  got  knotted,  or  she  took  a  wrong  stitch, 
or  was  forced  to  rip  out,  or  she  dropped  her  knit- 
ting needles,  she  grew  vexed  and  pouted,  and  felt 
persecuted  by  some  invisible  agency,  and  was 
miserable  for  hours.  Even  at  her  toilette,  when 
she  was  contemplating  with  only  too  much  compla- 
cency, her  fair  visage  in  the  mirror,  if  the  glossy 
hair  she  was  braiding,  became  tangled,  or  if  she 
found  an  unlucky  rent  in  some  of  her  garments,  or 
a  disfiguring  spot  upon  her  dress,  all  her  sunshine 
was  gone  ;  ill  humor  took  possession  of  her ;  she 
was  too  much  out  of  sorts  to  partake  of  the  antici- 
pated enjoyment,  and  unresistingly  yielded  herself 
up  to  the  blue  devils,  who  always  seemed  lying  in 
wait  to  entrap  her. 

*Little  Viola  was  regarded,  by  casual  observers, 
as  a  far  more  ordinary  child  than  her  brother  or 
sister.  She  was  intelligent,  but  by  no  means  pre- 
cocious. She  acquired  by  industry  and  perse- 
verance, not  by  intuition.  In  the  place  of  striking 
beauty,  she  possessed,  in  an  eminent  degree,  the 
loveliness  of  innocence  and  placid  content,  of  glow- 


Fairy  Gifts.  41 

ing  health,  and  a  gloriously  developed  physique, 
strong  and  untainted  as  her  pure  spirit.  The  more 
thoughtful  gazer  noted  the  softness  of  her  deep 
blue  eyes,  the  serene,  yet  earnest,  expression  of 
her  mild  countenance,  the  happy  smile  that  ever 
lingered  about  her  rosy  mouth  ;  and  could  not  fail 
to  remark  that  although  she  lacked  the  perfect 
grace  of  Cynthia's  airy,  undulating  motions,  all  her 
movements  were  purposeful,  as  though  some  bright 
goal  to  be  reached  was  ever  within  view.  Her 
light,  dancing  step  seemed  the  rebound  of  her  leap- 
ing heart ;  her  gushing  laughter,  the  echo  of  her 
joyous  soul ;  her  melodious  voice,  the  vibration  of 
harmonious  chords  within.  And  though  no  one 
called  little  Viola  "  wonderfully  gifted,"  as  they  did 
her  brother,  or  "  marvellously  beautiful,"  as  they 
did  her  sister,  yet,  little  by  little,  all  who  knew  her, 
received  the  impression  that  she  was  endowed 
with  some  nameless  gift,  that  took  the  place  of, 
or,  rather,  that  surpassed  talent,  —  some  gift  that 
conveyed  a  sense  of  superlative  beauty. 

Viola  set  about  every  undertaking  with  cheerful 
zeal,  and  pursued  it  with  unwearied  steadiness. 
When  a  difficulty  arose,  she  paused  good  humoredly, 
carefully  examined  into  the  nature  of  the  obstacle, 
threw  all  her  might  into  the  effort  to  overcome  it, 
and,  if  no  remedy  could  be  found,  half  warbling  her 
cheerful  by-phrase,  "  make  the  best  of  it !  "  she 
sought  out  a  way  by  which  the  evil  might  be 
endured.     When  she  was  deprived  of  an  anticipa- 


42 Make  the  best  of  it ;  or> 

ted  pleasure,  she  philosophically  endeavored  to 
substitute  another,  within  her  reach.  A  book,  some 
pleasant  employment,  arranging  pressed  flowers 
in  her  herbarium,  adding  to  her  scrap-book,  learn- 
ing a  song,  sketching  a  new  picture,  invariably 
neutralized  the  spirit-dampening  effects  of  the 
unwelcome  rain.  In  short,  she  accommodated 
herself  to  circumstances  with  such  skilful  adapta- 
tion, made  the  best  of  the  inevitable  with  such 
cheerful  tact,  that  no  passing  event  inconvenienced 
her,  no  chance  disappointment  disturbed  her 
equanimity. 

As  she  grew  older,  she  astonished  her  parents 
by  correctly  executing  difficult  pieces  of  music, 
which  had  baffled  her  gifted  brother's  skill ;  and 
completing  pictures  he  had  commenced  and  thrown 
by  in  despair.  She  inherited,  too,  his  faculty  for 
versification,  and  though  her  effusions  were  always 
short,  the  music  of  the  rythm,  the  concentration  of 
thought,  the  choiceness  of  the  language,  and  high 
finish  of  her  verses,  placed  them  far  above  his  more 
ambitious,  but  less  perfect,  poetic  flights.  By  and 
by,  her  parents  were  startled  into  the  admission  that 
Viola's  talents  were  equal,  if  not  superior,  to  those 
of  her  brother  ;  and  when  her  sunny,  peaceful  face 
was  accidentally  placed  in  contrast  with  Cynthia's 
fretful,  clouded  countenance,  in  spite  of  the  rich 
coloring  and  classic  symmetry  of  the  latter,  Viola's 
was  pronounced  the  more  beautiful. 

"  Ah  !  "    exclaimed   the   mother,    remorsefully, 


Fairy   Gifts.  43 

when  this  conviction  pressed  upon  her,  "  ah !  the 
Fairy  was  wiser  than  I !  She  has  given  my  Viola 
all  gifts  in  one.  '  She  shall  make  the  best  of 
everything  ! '  the  good  spirit  said  ;  and,  blind  that 
I  was,  I  could  not  see  that  to  make  the  best  of 
everything  was  to  have  no  faculty  undeveloped,  no 
power  wasted  ;  to  let  no  opportunity  be  lost,  to  be 
conquered  by  no  trial,  to  pursue  the  right  path 
steadfastly  and  unweariedly,  to  find  out  the  use  of 
the  very  roughness  of  the  road  !  That  blessed 
endowment  surpasses  the  boon  of  genius  and 
beauty,  yet  gives  birth  to  both  !  Assuredly,  no 
one  can  know  how  abundant  are  God's  blessings, 
(come  they  in  what  shape  they  may,)  until  he  has 
made  the  best  of  every  one  !  " 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  TRIUMPH. 


>N  the  palmiest  days  of  art  in  Florence, 
one  of  its  grand  Dukes  made  known,  by 
proclamation,  that  he  designed  to  add  to 
the  statues  which  adorned  his  palace,  a  represen- 
tation of  Mary,  the  pardoned  sinner,  anointing  the 
Saviour's  feet,  which  she  had  washed  with  her 
penitent  tears,  and  wiped  with  her  flowing  hair. 
The  space  of  three  years  was  allowed  for  the  crea- 
tion of  a  chef-d'oeuvre.  Three  venerable  sculptors 
were  appointed  judges.  At  the  expiration  of  the 
allotted  time,  they  were  commissioned  to  visit  the 
atelier  of  every  artist,  who  notified  them  that  he 
had  a  Mary  to  offer,  and  decide  what  statues  were 
worthy  of  being  sent  to  the  ducal  palace  for  fur- 
ther examination.  There  the  final  selection  was 
to  be  made,  by  thirty-four  judges.  The  sculptor 
whose  chisel  produced  a  marble  Mary  of  superla- 
tive beauty  was  to  receive  the  sum  of  <£500  for 
his  labor.  But  mere  gold  mattered  little,  compared 
to  the  honor  of  a  triumph  which  opened  a  brilliant 
career  to  the  successful  aspirant. 

Need  we  number  the  artists  who  were  competi- 
tors for  the  invaluable  distinction  ] 


The  Sculptor's  Triumph,  45 

The  day  previous  to  the  one  fixed  for  the  ex- 
hibition arrived,  the  day  upon  which  the  three 
judges  made  their  rounds,  and  awarded  permission 
for  the  statues  approved  to  enter  the  palace  on  the 
morrow. 

Many  a  heart  in  Florence  grew  sick  with  al- 
ternations of  hope  and  fear.  Many  an  artist's  soul 
was  filled  with  despair  as  he  recognized  the  vast 
distance  that  existed  between  his  actual  execution 
and  the  sublime  heights  reached  by  his  ideal  con- 
ception. Many  others,  gifted  with  the  gigantic 
self-esteem  which  is  often  the  blemish  of  genius, 
exulted  in  the  certainty  of  their  triumph,  and,  un- 
rebuked  by  a  doubt  of  their  surpassing  merits, 
impatiently  awaited  the  coming  of  the  judges. 

In  one  studio  sat  a  youth  who  had  seen  the  roses 
of  but  twenty-two  summers  bloom  and  wither. 
Though  the  dawn  had  scarcely  broken,  he  was 
dressed  with  scrupulous  care,  and  his  picturesque 
attire,  of  black  velvet,  displayed  to  advantage  his 
lithely  moulded  form,  and  imparted  a  striking 
transparency  to  his  colorless  complexion.  His 
hollow  cheeks  bespoke  vigils  of  study  and  labor ; 
his  dark,  deeply  sunken  eyes,  full  of  restless  fire, 
betrayed  a  fervid  and  highly  sensitive  organization, 
a  temperament  at  once  imaginative  and  volcanic. 
His  hair  of  purple  blackness,  wandered  in  untaught 
curls  from  beneath  a  velvet  cap,  shading  his  expan- 
sive brow,  and  eloquent,  though  too  sharply  cut, 
features. 


46  The  Sculptor's  Triumph. 

His  studio  was  somewhat  bare.  A  crimson 
curtain  divided  the  apartment.  As  the  golden 
rays  of  morning  began  to  illumine  the  chamber, 
Andrea  was  roused  from  his  reverie.  He  rose  and 
bolted  the  door,  a  precaution  always  taken  before 
that  curtain  was  thrown  aside.  Now,  with  eager 
movements,  he  flung  back  the  crimson  folds  and 
again  sank  into  his  seat.  As  he  contemplated  the 
treasure  disclosed,  what  rapidly  varying  expressions 
chased  each  other  over  his  countenance,  like  a 
changing  panorama  fitfully  reflected  in  some  pellu- 
cid mirror. 

Before  him  stood  a  marble  wonder,  indeed !  The 
plaster  model  was  partially  visible  in  the  back- 
ground. In  general,  sculptors  do  not  themselves  han- 
dle the  chisel,  except  to  give  a  few  finishing  and  em- 
bellishing touches.  The  laborious  mechanical  duty 
of  copying  in  marble,  by  close  measurement  from 
tjie  plaster  cast,  is  usually  entrusted  to  skilful 
workmen ;  but  Andrea  felt  as  though  his  exquisite 
creation  would  have  been  profaned  if  other 
eyes  rested  upon  it,  other  hands  touched  it  dur- 
ing its  incompletion.  He  had  called  his  Mary 
into  existence  out  of  the  snowy  block  himself. 
Truth  to  say,  he  had  manipulated  as  lightly  and 
tenderly  as  though  he  feared  the  frigid  stone  were 
gifted  with  sensation ;  as  though  he  thought,  each 
moment,  that  it  would  pulsate  with  life.  Pyg- 
malion looked  not  more  enamored  of  the  loveliness 
that  had  started  into  shape  beneath  his  touch  than 


The  Sculptor  s  Triumph  47 

the  young,  unnoted  Florentine  sculptor  in  the 
presence  of  the  Mary  he  had  evoked  ! 

It  was  a  gloriously  beautiful  form,  full  of  the 
most  exquisite  delicacy,  the  most  speaking  grace, 
the  most  touching  purity.  The  kneeling  figure, 
though  ethereally  fragile,  was  rounded  to  such  per- 
fection that  laughing  dimples  were  pressed  upon 
the  falling  shoulders,  the  Andalusian  feet,  the 
dainty  hands.  The  swell  of  the  expanding  bosom, 
just  budding  into  the  fulness  of  womanhood,  was 
revealed  beneath  the  transparent  drapery.  The 
small,  poetically  shaped  head  was  raised,  disclosing 
the  graceful  curve  of  the  slender  throat ;  the  up- 
turned face  seemed  gazing  with  inspired  devotion, 
into  that  of  the  Saviour.  The  hair  flowed  to  the 
ground  in  rippling  waves.  One  hand  held  the 
box  of  ointment ;  the  other  clasped  the  clustering 
tresses,  as  though  in  the  act  of  pressing  them 
upon  the  Redeemer's  feet. 

But  there  was  a  marked  defect  in  the  marble 
representation,  though  Andrea  saw  it  not.  That 
face  and  form  inspired  the  gazer  with  a  sense  of 
the  spiritualizing  power  of  perfect  chastity.  Its 
loveliness  was  that  of  the  most  unsullied  innocence. 
No  trace  of  sensuous  emotion  was  visible.  It  was 
not  possible  to  imagine  that  one  whose  soul  had 
been  heavy  with  sin,  could  ever  again  wear  a  look 
so  pure. 

While  Andrea  sat  dreaming  before  his  master- 
piece, a  light  tap  on  the  door  was  thrice  repeated, 


48  The  Sculptor  s  Triumph. 

as  though  for  a  signal.  Andrea  started  up,  and 
his  pale  countenance  flushed  with  a  sudden  glow 
of  rapture.  Is  it  the  judges  he  is  expecting,  so 
soon  after  the  sunrise  ?  The  bolt  is  rapidly  with- 
drawn, the  door  opens,  a  young  girl,  followed  by  a 
sort  of  nurse,  or  gouvernante,  enters. 

"  Constanza,  you  have  come  !  " 

"  Did  I  ever  fail  you,  Andrea]  " 

"  Never,  my  good  angel,  my  saint  of  Inspira- 
tion'? Come,  and  let  me  see  if  I  can  dare  to  look 
once  more  upon  the  copy,  and  behold  it  fade  into 
dull,  impotent  insignificance  before  the  divine 
original ! " 

Andrea's  Mary  was  not  the  offspring  of  his  im- 
agination ;  there,  before  him,  beamed  that  guileless 
countenance,  stood  that  shape  full  of  artless  grace 
and  infantile  purity,  which  he  had  so  faithfully 
transmitted  to  marble.  But  the  "  lunar  beauty  of 
sculpture "  could  not  convey  the  lustre  of  those 
clear,  blue  eyes,  the  amber  gleaming  of  the  hair, 
the  peach-like  hue  of  the  cheeks,  the  dewy  rosiness 
of  the  tender  lips,  the  auroral  freshness  of  the 
whole  form. 

Something  more  than  two  years  previous  to  the 
date  of  our  narrative,  the  maiden's  father  chanced 
to  see  a  statuette  of  St.  Catharine  modelled  by 
Andrea,  and  was  struck  by  the  genius  evinced  by 
its  execution.  The  Duke  was  not  only  an  expe- 
rienced judge  but  a  liberal  patron  of  art.  He  at 
once  purchased  the  St.  Catharine,  sought  out  the 


The  Sculptors  Triumph.  49 

young  sculptor,  and  engaged  him  to  adorn  a  hall 
of  his  palace  with  has  relievos. 

A  room  was  appropriated  to  Andrea's  use,  for 
the  prosecution  of  his  work.  The  Duke  and  his 
daughter  watched  its  progress  with  deep  interest. 
Indeed,  Constanza,  when  her  studies  were  accom- 
plished, daily  wandered  to  the  apartment  where  the 
young  sculptor  was  employed.  That  one  as  sen- 
sitive to  physical  beauty  as  Andrea,  finding  it  uni- 
ted to  rare  mental  loveliness,  should  have  become 
enamored  of  this  paragon  of  maidenhood,  was  al- 
most a  matter  of  course.  But  Andrea  worshipped 
in  respectful  silence,  and  never  had  the  audacity  to 
suppose  that  his  passion  had  revealed  itself  in  his 
looks  ;  never  dared  to  hope  that  she  who  inspired  it 
could  become  conscious  of  its  existence  ;  never  was 
mad  enough  to  dream  for  a  moment  that,  if  divined, 
it  could  ever  be  returned. 

The  bas  relievos  completed,  the  sculptor  with- 
drew, full  of  gratitude  to  his  noble  patron,  and 
bearing  with  him  the  image  of  Constanza,  indel- 
ibly stamped  on  his  own  soul !  She  was  the  far- 
off  star  that  henceforth  illumined  his  horizon, 
though  deemed  as  unapproachable  by  him,  as  con- 
stellations are  to  mortals. 

What  was  his  astonishment  when  Constanza, 
with  her  faithful  attendant,  Bettina,  who  had 
watched  over  the  motherless  young  maiden  from 
her  infancy,  made  their  appearance  at  his  atelier ! 
They  came  again  and  again ;  and  Constanza,  un- 

5 


50  The  Sculptor  s  Triumph. 

conscious  as  Desdemona  of  the  betrayal  of  her 
affection,  like  Desdemona,  was  "  half  the  wooer." 
Andrea's  discretion  was  put  to  flight ;  in  an  un- 
guarded moment  he  poured  forth  his  hopeless  pas- 
sion, asking  and  expecting  nothing  but  the  privi- 
lege of  saying  that  he  loved  and  despaired,  the  joy  of 
daring  to  believe  that  his  love  was  not  spurned. 
To  aspire  to  the  hand  of  a  Florentine  lady  of  high 
lineage,  seemed  too  wild  a  vision  even  for  an  en- 
thusiast. But  the  gentle  Constanza  thought  other- 
wise. 

"  You  will  be  famous  one  of  these  days,"  she 
timidly  said ;  "  you  will  win  renown  equal  to  that 
of  Michael  Angelo,  and  then  my  father  will  not 
refuse  you  his  child.  Genius  has  a  nobility  of  its 
own,  far  higher  and  worthier  than  that  of  ac- 
cidental descent.  We  have  only  to  wait  —  wait 
for  years,  perhaps  many  years  !  Wait  until  clus- 
tering laurels  have  crowned  your  brow,  and  then 
you  may   place    the   bridal    chaplet  upon  mine." 

So  she  prattled  on  in  her  hopeful,  innocent  way, 
and  Andrea,  against  his  better  judgment,  could  not 
forego  the  happiness  of  believing  her  words. 

When  the  prize  for  Mary  was  offered  by  the 
Grand  Duke,  Andrea  immediately  became  one  of 
the  competitors.  Was  it  wonderful  that  he  un- 
consciously communicated  to  his  design  the  face 
and  form  ever  present  to  his  mind  !  Old  Bettina 
first  discovered  the  resemblance.  Then  Constanza 
impulsively  proposed  to  sit  as  the  model  for  her 


The  Sculptors  Triumph.  51 

lover.  How  could  he  refuse  ?  Day  after  day, 
before  the  house  was  astir,  she  and  Bettina  stole 
forth,  under  the  pretence  of  taking  a  morning 
walk,  and  hastened  to  Andrea's  studio.  All  the 
young  artist's  faculties  were  quickened  by  love  and 
ambition.  All  his  powers,  in  the  fulness  of  their 
strength,  were  concentrated  on  this  one  work,  the 
chef-d'oeuvre  which  was  to  earn  him  fame  and  win 
the  bright  original  he  was  duplicating. 

"  Are  you  content  with  your  Mary,  yet?  "  asked 
Constanza,  looking  into  his  dark  eyes  and  discov- 
ering the  cloud  that  shadowed  them. 

"  I  am  never  content  with  her  when  you  are  by  ! 
It  is  in  vain  that  I  have  tried  to  give  this  hair  the 
soft  ripple  of  yours  !  And,  oh  !  that  I  could  impart 
to  the  blank  marble  the  living  hues,  the  changing 
gold  of  the  locks,  the  celestial  blue  of  the  eyes, 
the  rose-tint  of  the  lips !  The  statue  looks  s*o 
cold  and  senseless  when  you  are  before  me,  that 
I  am  in  despair  !  " 

t;  Oh  !  Andrea,  I  am  sure  that  it  is  perfect ! 
But  since  you  are  dissatisfied  with  your  work,  I 
must  sit  for  you  once  more.  It  will  be  the  last 
time,  for  the  judges  visit  the  studio  to-day,  and  to- 
morrow the  statue  will  be  admitted  into  the  pal- 
ace." 

Before  Andrea  could  reply,  Constanza  had  hur- 
ried with  Bettina  into  the  ante-chamber.  In  a  few 
moments  she  re-appeared,  looking  more  angelic 
than  ever,  in  the  spotless  white  robe,  girdled  lightly 


52  The  Sculptor  s  Triumph. 

around  her  flexible  waist,  and  flowing  into  folds 
that  clung  to  her  slight  form  and  revealed  its  un- 
dulating outlines.  Her  long  hair  enveloped  her 
like  a  golden  cloud.  With  unstudied  ease,  she  at 
once  threw  herself  into  the  attitude  of  the  penitent 
Mary,  and  remained  motionless.  Andrea  contem- 
plated her  in  almost  breathless  silence,  then  took 
up  his  chisel  and  gave  a  few  light  touches  to  the 
marble,  then  drew  back,  and  gazed  upon  the  living 
form,  glowing  with  life  and  beauty,  and  upon  its 
inanimate  copy.  Carried  away  by  an  ungovernable 
emotion,  he  suddenly  flung  aside  the  chisel,  and 
burst  into  tears. 

Constanza  sprang  up  and  hastened  to  his  side, 
but  his  agitation  was  so  violent  that  he  seemed  un- 
conscious  of  her  presence.  With  gentle  force  she 
drew  away  the  hands  that  covered  his  face,  and 
gathered  up  her  flowing  tresses  as  though  to  wipe 
his  eyes.  Well  might  the  mingled  archness  and 
poetry  of  the  action  make  him  smile. 

"  Your  Mary  will  win  the  prize,  Andrea !  I  am 
sure  of  it !  " 

"Will  it  win  both  prizes,  this  above  all?"  ans- 
wered Andrea,  taking  her  hand. 

"  Yes,  one  now,  and  the  other  in  time.  Per- 
haps," she  added,  laughing,  "  when  there  are  a  few 
wrinkles  here  for  you  to  add  to  your  Mary's  brow, 
that  the  likeness  may  be  retained.  But  see  how 
the  sun  is  inarching  up  the  heavens  !  Come,  Bet- 
tina,  it  warns  us  to  be  on  our  way." 


The  Sculptors  Triumph.  53 

The  attendant  and  her  beloved  young  mistress 
retired  again  and  quickly  returned,  Constanza 
wearing  her  usual  dress. 

"  Farewell,  Andrea ;  to-morrow  morning  I  will 
come  again  to  learn  what  the  judges  have  said. 
To  learn?"  she  continued,  gayly,  "why  I  can 
prophesy  their  words,  I  shall  have  nothing  to  learn, 
only  a  sweet  confirmation  to  hear.  Do  not  shake 
your  head,  I  am  sure  of  their  verdict ;  farewell." 

The  leave-taking  between  the  young  lovers  was 
hardly  as  warm  as  might  have  been  expected. 
They  clasped  hands,  she  with  trustful,  yet  trem- 
ulous timidity,  he  with  tender  reverence.  Such 
had  ever  been  the  reserved  character  of  their  in- 
tercourse. 

As  the  door  closed  the  young  sculptor  turned 
again  to  his  Mary.  A  thousand  glaring  defects 
became  suddenly  apparent  to  his  excited  imagina- 
tion ;  all  the  features  were  distorted,  the  lines  were 
faulty,  the  whole  expression  was  tame,  senseless  ! 
He  could  not  endure  the  sight  of  his  work,  and 
impetuously  drew  the  crimson  curtain,  vowing  that 
he  would  not  throw  back  its  folds  until  the  judges 
arrived. 

There  was  no  likelihood  of  their  appearance 
before  noon,  yet  he  did  not  dare  to  absent  himself 
from  the  studio,  even  to  break  his  fast.  He  sat 
with  his  head  leaning  on  his  hands,  lost  in  thought ; 
and,  while  he  mused,  the  gates  of  fancy  opened 

5* 


54  The  Sculptors'  Triumph. 

to  every  fantastic  fear  that  presented  itself  for  ad- 
mission. 

Hour  after  hour  passed,  and  now  he  began  to 
start  at  every  step  that  approached  his  door  ;  his 
heart  palpitated  and  his  breath  came  thick,  but  the 
steps  passed  carelessly  on,  as  though  no  one  were 
conscious  of  his  existence.  The  gairish  light  be- 
gan to  soften  and  fade  ;  surely  it  must  be  evening  ! 
Andrea  shuddered  at  the  terrible  possibility  that 
he  had  been  wholly  forgotten. 

A  loud  rap  on  the  door  put  to  flight  this  last 
tormenting  fiend.  The  judges  had  come.  As  they 
entered  Andrea  thought  they  glanced  around  with 
an  expression  of  undisguised  scorn. 

He  faltered  out,  "  You  are  very  welcome,  it  was 
so  late,  I  almost  feared" — 

One  of  the  judges  interrupted  him,  and  ans- 
wered, gruffly,  "  Yes,  we  are  late,  we  have  made 
the  rounds  of  the  studios,  and  a  fatiguing  time  we 
have  had  of  it ;  this  is  the  last,  we  must  get 
through  quickly  while  the  light  serves." 

His  tone  expressed  not  merely  impatience,  but 
the  conviction  that  they  could  meet  with  no  ar- 
tistic achievement  in  that  locality  which  would  re- 
quire much  examination,  or  give  rise  to  any  pro- 
longed discussion. 

Andrea  seized  the  crimson  curtain  with  a  con- 
vulsive grasp,  threw  it  aside,  and  turned  away, 
that  he  might  not  see  the  condemning  counte- 
nances of  his  merciless  critics.     Large  drops  of 


The  Sculptor's   Triumph.  55 

dew  started  from  his  brow;  a  cold  tremor  ran 
through  his  frame  ;  his  heart  sank  as  with  the  pres- 
sure of  a  leaden  weight.  The  door  which  opened 
to  admit  those  stern-visaged  old  men  had  let  out 
his  last  hope.  His  only  struggle  now  was  to  bear 
the  sentence  of  condemnation  like  a  man ;  his 
only  wish  that  the  interview  might  be  quickly 
over. 

For  a  few  moments  deep  silence  followed  the 
disclosure  of  the  statue.  The  stillness  was  broken 
by  an  exclamation  from  the  eldest  of  the  visitors. 
Andrea  turned  involuntarily.  The  features  of  the 
old  man  evinced  violent  emotion,  as  with  piercing, 
uncompromising  eyes,  he  intently  surveyed  the 
marble  form.  It  was  not  admiration  his  coun- 
tenance expressed,  nor  disappointment,  nor  dis- 
approval, it  was  absolute  horror. 

In  the  looks  of  the  other  two  judges  the  most 
casual  observer  could  have  read  wonder  and  de- 
light. They  whispered  together  for  a  moment, 
then  turned  to  Andrea. 

"  It  is  a  noble  work,  full  of  power,  full  of  ge- 
nius ! "  exclaimed  one  of  these  two,  with  enthu- 
siasm. 

"  I  was  never  more  amazed !  I  expected  noth- 
ing like  this  !  "  ejau elated  the  other. 

"  It  will  be  admitted  to  the  exhibition,  then  1 " 
asked  Andrea,  eagerly. 

"Admitted'?"  replied  the  judge  who  had  first 
spoken.  "  Young  man,  it  will  win  the  prize.  Is 
not  that  your  opinion  ?  "  turning  to  his  companion. 


56  The  Sculptor's  Triumph, 

"  Decidedly  the  best  thing  we  have  seen  yet.  It 
will  be  the  chosen  master-piece.  Do  you  not  say 
so  \ "  said  the  latter,  addressing  the  eldest  of  the 
party,  who  still  stood  silently  glancing  from  the  stat- 
ue to  Andrea  with  a  troubled  gaze. 

"  If  it  should  be  seen  at  the  exhibition,  yes  — 
but"  — 

"If,  Signor?"  interrupted  Andrea;  "I  intend 
to  send  it  there  ;  that  is,  if  your  permission  will  be 
granted." 

"  That  is  yours,"  said  one  of  the  old  men,  who 
had  seated  himself  by  the  table,  and  was  now  wri- 
ting. He  held  out  the  order  of  admission.  "  Send 
the  statue  betimes  to-morrow ;  the  doors  will  be 
open  by  ten." 

Andrea  extended  his  trembling  hand  for  the 
paper,  his  lips  moved  inarticulately ;  the  quick 
revulsion  from  despair  to  ecstasy  had  rendered  him 
speechless.  He  was  intoxicated  with  happiness, 
yet  its  suddenness  caused  him  to  suffer  intensely. 
At  that  moment  he  felt  that  he  knew  what  the 
sense  of  dying  with  joy  must  be. 

Two  of  the  judges  passed  out  of  the  studio.  The 
eldest  lingered  a  moment  behind,  and  whispered  to 
Andrea,  in  a  voice  of  command  ;  "  Remain  here  for 
a  short  time ;  I  will  return ;  I  have  something  of 
importance  to  say  to  you." 

Andrea  bowed,  smilingly. 

The  door  closed,  and  he  threw  himself  upon  his 
knees  and  gave  vent  to  his  gratitude  and  rapture 


The  Sculptor  s  Triumph,  57 

in  a  vehement  burst  of  thanksgiving.  Then  he 
approached  the  sculptured  figure  and  addressed  it 
passionately,  as  though  it  were  a  living  thing,  as 
though  it  were  Constanza  herself! 

A  step  Behind  him  interrupted  his  rhapsody. 
The  judge  had  returned.     His  face  was  very  grave. 

"  Young  man,"  he  asked,  abruptly,  "  who  posed 
for  that  statue  ]  " 

Andrea  started,  but  did  not  reply. 

"  Who  was  your  model  ?  "  inquired  the  judge  in 
a  still  harsher  tone. 

Andrea  hesitated,  then  stammered  out  with  un- 
disguised confusion,  "  Is  it  always  needful  to  have 
a  model  ?     An  ideal  work,  methinks,  might "  — 

"  Do  not  trifle  with  me  !  "  rejoined  his  ques- 
tioner, in  an  authoritative  tone.  "  This  is  no  ideal 
work.  You  had  a  model,  and  that  model  was 
Constanza,  only  daughter  of  the  Duke .  Con- 
fess it." 

Andrea's  look  of  consternation  was  an  unmis- 
takable answer. 

"  It  is  well  that  you  do  not  attempt  to  deny  the 
fact.  The  likeness  is  so  striking  that  it  would  be 
impossible  for  it  not  to  be  recognized  at  a  glance. 
If  this  statue  should  appear  at  the  exhibition,  all 
who  have  ever  beheld  Constanza,  will  recognize  it 
as  her  faithful  counterpart.  Have  you  thought  of 
the  consequences  of  such  a  revelation  ?  It  will  be 
known  that  she  came  here  in  secret ;  that  she  sat 
as  your  model ;  that  love  for  you  could  alone  have 


58  The  Sculptor  s  Triumph. 

moved  her  to  this  imprudent  act  of  devotion.  Her 
spotless  name  will  receive  an  indelible  stain.  Her 
proud  father,  overwhelmed  by  the  public  disgrace 
of  his  child,  will  visit  his  wrath  upon  her  in  some 
fearful  manner  ;  possibly  by  banishing  her  to  a 
convent !  You  will  win  the  prize,  and  the  road  to 
fame  and  fortune  will  be  thrown  open  to  you.  I  do 
not  attempt  to  conceal  from  you  that  such  will  be 
the  result  of  your  exhibiting  that  statue  ;  but  the 
rash  girl,  through  whose  devotion  you  achieved 
your  triumph,  will  be  covered  with  obloquy  !  " 

A  thunderbolt  had  fallen  upon  Andrea.  Hardly 
less  white  than  the  marble  shape  before  him,  and 
as  powerless,  he  listened  to  these  words  of  doom. 

"  I  come  to  warn  you,"  resumed  the  judge. 
"  And  now  that  you  have  heard  that  warning,  I 
would  test  which  is  stronger  in  a  young  man's 
breast,  the  desire  for  fame,  or  love  for  a  pure 
woman  ;  ay,  love,  for  it  is  evident  that  you  are 
enamored  of  Constanza.  I  read  that  in  every  line 
of  your  work." 

Still  Andrea  gave  no  sign. 

"  I  shall  know  your  answer  to-morrow,  by  the 
absence  or  presence  of  that  statue  at  the  exhibition. 
Reflect  upon  my  words.  I  know  Constanza's 
father  well.     I  leave  you  to  make  your  choice." 

He  bowed  slightly,  and  passed  from  the  room. 

Andrea  remained  standing,  mutely  gazing  upon 
the  door  that  closed  on  the  pitiless  oracle.  Slowly 
the  sculptor  turned  once  more  to  the  marble  Mary. 


The  Sculptor  s  Triumph.  59 

His  agony  could  not  be  compressed  into  speech,  or 
even  find  vent  in  groans  ;  he  was  stunned,  petrified ! 
His  brain  was  on  fire  !  A  thousand  frightful  phan- 
toms passed  before  his  dazzled  eyes  !  The  statue 
lived,  and  talked  to  him ;  upbraided  him,  mocked 
him,  cursed  him  for  its  creation !  Myriads  of 
tongues  shouted  "  Shame  ! "  "  Shame ! "  "  Shame ! " 
in  his  ears. 

That  night  was  one  of  unbroken  horror.  The 
morning  sun  found  him  in  a  state  of  semi-stupe- 
faction, which  had  succeeded  his  excess  of  phrenzy. 
Hardly  had  the  amethyst  light  of  dawn  touched 
the  statue,  when  three  soft  taps  sounded  on  the 
door ;  but  he  stirred  not.  They  were  repeated 
again  and  again,  but  he  did  not  hear.  The  door, 
which  had  not  been  fastened  after  the  Judge  passed 
out,  gently  opened.  Constanza's  airy  step  gave  no 
sound,  but  Bettina's  heavy  tread  aroused  Andrea. 
The  young  maiden  uttered  a  cry  as  she  glanced  at 
his  haggard  face,  drawn  into  sharp  lines ;  his  wildly 
glaring  eyes,  his  dishevelled  hair,  and  look  of  hope- 
less wretchedness. 

"  Oh !  Andrea,  has  your  master-piece  been 
refused  ?  " 

With  almost  maniacal  vehemence,  Andrea  re- 
lated what  had  occurred. 

"  Your  disgrace,  Constanza  !  "  he  added,  wildly  ; 
"  that  shall  never  be  !  I  have  vowed  that  it  should 
not !  Love  conquers  ambition,  and  the  hope  of 
glory  !  Love  is  stronger  than  all  else  !  See  !  see  ! 
thus  I  put  an  end  to  temptation  ! " 


60  The  Sculptor  s  Triumph, 

He  seized  a  heavy  mallet,  and,  with  a  few  blows, 
the  plaster  model  was  shattered  !  Constanza  tried 
to  stay  his  arm ;  even  Bettina  interposed,  and 
prayed  him  to  desist ;  he  heeded  neither.  For  a 
moment  he  stood  before  the  exqnisite  marble  form, 
over  which  he  had  toiled,  and  hoped,  and  rejoiced, 
years.  With  a  heart-bursting  cry,  and  the  look  of 
an  executioner,  he  lifted  his  arm  ;  it  descended,  and 
the  lovely  head  rolled  on  the  ground  !  The  work 
of  destruction  went  rapidly  on  ;  the  hand  that  held 
the  box  of  ointment  w\as  smitten,  the  white  arm  fell, 
the  glorious  shape  was  mutilated ;  still  the  blows 
were  repeated  with  frantic  force. 

Neither  Andrea,  nor  the  young  girl,  nor  her 
attendant,  had  heard  the  door  open.  It  was  not 
until  a  shriek  of  terror  escaped  from  Bettina,  that 
they  beheld  two  old  men  standing  upon  the  thresh- 
old, mute  spectators  of  the  scene. 

One  was  the  Judge  who  had  warned  Andrea, 
the  other  was  the  father  of  Constanza ! 

The  former,  fearing  to  trust  to  the  sculptor's  de- 
cision, had  informed  his  noble  friend  of  the  discov- 
ery he  had  made,  and  hastened  with  him  to  Andrea's 
studio,  at  an  hour  too  early  for  the  statue  to  have 
been  sent  to  the  palace. 

The  Duke's  just  indignation  melted  at  the  sight 
of  that  heroic  deed  of  self-renunciation.  He  rec- 
ognized and  respected  the  nobility  of  spirit  that 
nerved  the  young  sculptor's  heart  and  arm ;  the 
man  he  would  have  spurned,  an  hour  before,  was 


The  Sculptor  s  Triumph.  61 

transformed  by    that  noble  act  into  a  hero ;  was 
raised  to  an  equal. 

He  strode  past  the  trembling  Constanza,  and  laid 
his  hand  on  Andrea's  arm,  just  as  it  was  lifted  for 
another  blow. 

"  Enough  !  I  would  contemplate  what  is  left  of 
this  wonderful  work,  which  my  friend  so  highly 
commends." 

Andrea's  excitement  suddenly  subsided ;  his 
knees  knocked  together ;  a  livid  hue  overspread 
his  countenance,  the  lids  dropped  over  his  glazing 
eyes,  he  tottered,  and  would  have  fallen,  if  the  pity- 
ing Judge  had  not  received  him  in  his  arms,  and 
tenderly  placed  him  in  a  chair. 

"  Pardon  Constanza  !  visit  no  wrath  upon  her," 
Andrea  murmured,  faintly. 

"  She  is  pardoned,"  answered  the  Duke,  extend- 
ing his  arms  to  receive  her.  The  weeping  girl 
gratefully  clung  to  his  bosom,  but  with  her  eyes 
fixed  imploringly  upon  her  half  insensible  lover. 

"  Andrea  !  "  said  the  Duke,  "  you  have  achieved 
a  greater  triumph  than  if  your  statue  had  obtained 
the  prize ;  and  you  have  won  a  friend  whose  trust 
in  you,  the  experience  of  this  hour  proves  that  you 
will  never  betray." 

****** 

The  Duke  had  not  misjudged  the  character  of 
the  gifted  sculptor.  Not  even  his  profound  pas- 
sion for  Constanza,  ever  tempted  him  to  return 
her  father's  generous  confidence    with  treachery. 


62  The  Sculptor  s  Triumph. 

Though  he  and  Constanza  often  met,  it  was  never 
again  in  secret,  and  Andrea  breathed  no  word  of 
love  into  the  maiden's  ear.  Time  tested,  and  for- 
bearance strengthened,  their  affection.  Andrea's 
powers  as  a  sculptor  kept  steady  pace  with  his 
ambition.  In  a  few  years  he  won  renown,  and, 
with  it,  a  richer  guerdon,  for  the  Duke  bestowed 
upon  him  the  hand  of  his  daughter.  But  this  dear- 
est triumph  was  wrought,  not  by  the  fame  which 
crowned  his  genius,  but  by  the  glorious  victory  he 
had  gained  over  himself. 


THE  COQUETTE. 


HE  admired  of  many  eyes  and  the  beloved 
of  numberless  hearts,  (male  ones,  be  it 
understood,  for  women  are  strangely 
chary  in  bestowing  affection  upon  her,) 
is  Amanda  Littleton.  See  how  regally  she  stands, 
begirt  by  her  worshipping  subjects  !  How  the  ball- 
room moths,  that  float  around  her,  sun  themselves 
in  the  light  of  her  liberally  dispensed  smiles  ! 

"  Bright  as  the  sun  her  eyes  the  gazer  strike, 
But,  like  the  sun,  they  shine  on  all  alike." 


As  a  juggler  plays  with  his  glittering  balls,  she  is 
skilfully  sporting  with  all  those  hearts,  keeping 
them  flying  around  her,  yet  attracted  to  her,  pow- 
erless to  break  the  charmed  circle.  But  the  artil- 
lery, with  which  she  conquers,  is  so  light  that  it 
seems  cowardice  to  fly  its  graceful  battery.  The 
arts  by  "which  she  ensnares,  are  so  subtle  that  the 
wisest  of  her  train  can  neither  analyze  nor  with- 
stand them.  The  favors  she  tosses  as  rewards,  to 
this  or  that  suppliant,  are  so  harmless,  so  equally 
distributed,  that  none  dare  chide  her  prodigality. 

(63) 


64  The  Coquette. 

Tis  but  a  languishing  look  she  bestows  on  that 
adorer,  a  triumphant  smile  on  this  ;  that  tender 
sigh  is  for  another ;  something  very  like  a  blush  is 
the  guerdon  of  a  fourth  who  is  pouring  soft  flatter- 
ies into  her  ear.  But  even  while  she  listens  to  his 
praises,  her  eyes  are  wandering  afar,  she  arches 
her  slender  throat  and  glances  over  her  snowy 
shoulder ;  the  loadstone  of  that  look  attracts 
another  admirer  to  her  side  ;  and  the  glance  is  re- 
peated, again  and  again,  with  victorious  result. 
An  indefinable  instinct,  the  fifth  sense  which 
belongs  to  coquetry,  invariably  warns  her  whenever 
a  possible  captive  comes  within  reach  of  her 
enthralment. 

What  wondrous  power  lies  concealed  within  the 
witching  depths  of  those  eyes  of  hers !  We  have 
watched  their  play,  while  her  dewy  lips  mutely 
kissed  each  other,  and  the  most  impassioned  words 
would  have  been  less  eloquent  than  the  unspoken 
language  telegraphed  from  those  human  windows. 
Now  they  are  uplifted  with  saint-like  expression, 
now  musingly  half-closed,  now  the  clear  orbs  dance 
and  flash,  now  gaze  dreamily  through  liquid  lustre  ; 
suddenly  the  sweeping  lashes  drop  in  confusion 
over  the  blooming  cheek,  then  are  rapidly  raised 
in  glad  surprise.  No  need  of  utterance  to  convey 
her  real  or  simulated  emotions,  with  such  eyes  to 
say  more  than  lips  could  fitly  syllable. 

But  do  not  imagine  that  she  is  always  thus  silent ; 
far  from  it ;  and  her  voice  imparts  a  charm  to  the 


The  Coquette.  65 

veriest  persiflage  by  the  rare  faculty  of  attuning  it- 
self to  the  mood  of  the  hearer.  At  one  moment 
her  tones  are  full  of  melting  sweetness,  at  another, 
ringing  with  mirth ;  again  gravely  subdued,  or 
breaking  forth  into  a  gush  of  silvery,  but  never 
loud,  laughter  ;  and  now  and  then  as  she  speaks, 
her  aromatic  breath  touches  the  cheek  that  bows 
towards  her  and  sets  the  listener's  pulses  throbbing 
in  rapturous  tumult, 

The  very  rustling  of  her  dress,  as  it  sweeps 
along,  has  an  alarum  sound,  that  cries,  "  follow  !  " 
and  truly  a  motley  procession  follows  at  the  signal. 
The  modern  Alcisthenes  walks  arm  in  arm  with  the 
high  priest  of  science  ;  the  laureled  hero  and  head 
with  cap  and  bells  loom  out,  side  by  side,  the  Solon 
of  the  bench  hobbles  to  keep  pace  with  the  springy 
step  of  the  brainless  exquisite. 

Have  we  conveyed  the  impression  that  Amanda 
owes  her  fascination  to  the  "  fatal  gift "  of  superla- 
tive beauty !  That  is  an  error.  Strictly  handsome 
6he  can  scarcely  be  called  ;  but  she  is  so  piquantly, 
picturesquely  irresistible  in  face,  and  form,  and 
mien,  and  ways,  that  the  faultless  beauty,  who 
aspires  to  be  a  rival  in  her  absence,  flies  the  field, 
the  instant  that  Amanda  appears.  Her  supremacy 
lies  in  a  kind  of  bewildering  witchery,  which  makes 
itself  felt  in  the  very  opening  and  shutting  of  her 
fan.  the  motion  of  her  delicate  hand,  the  transient 
peeping  of  her  small  foot  from  beneath  her  ample 
drapery,  the  heaving  of  her  alabaster  breast,  ay, 

G* 


66  The  Coquette. 

in  the  very  rebellion  of  that  tiny  curl  which  invari- 
ably breaks  the  bondage  of  those  glossy  braids. 
Too  suggestive  of  liberty  is  that  recreant  "  love- 
lock," which  jewelled  fingers  are  constantly 
thrusting  back,  or  which  a  toss  of  the  Phidian  head 
sets  quivering  along  with  the  red  rose  imprisoned 
in  her  soft  tresses,  and  the  long  spray,  tipped  with 
an  opening  bud,  that  roams  caressingly  down  her 
white  shoulders. 

But  there  is  no  disorder  about  her  toilet,  save 
that  which  is  apparent  in  the  straying  of  the  escaped 
ringlet,  which  brings  to  mind  Pope's  declaration 
that  "  man's  imperial  race  "  are  ensnared  by  fair 
tresses,  that  beauty  draws  by  "  a  single  hair,"  and 
recalls  what  some  other  bard  has  sung  about  lovers 
"being  tangled  in  the  meshes  of  Phillis'  locks." 

Did  we  venture  to  use  the  word  "  disorder  "  in 
relation  to  Amanda's  toilet  ?  That  expression 
was  singularly  inappropriate,  for  she  is  attired  with 
such  exquisitely  elaborate  care,  that  one  might  im- 
agine there  was  no  leisure  in  her  day  for  any  other 
employment  than  the  arraying  of  her  fair  person  ; 
not  time  even  for  thanks  to  Him  who  fashioned  the 
loveliness  she  delights  to  deck ;  or  else  we  might 
fancy  that  she  had  revived  the  custom  of  those 
courtly  belles  in  days  of  yore,  whose  toilets  and 
devotions  progressed  at  the  same  moment,  who 
worshipped  the  idol  reflected  in  their  mirrors,  and 
their  God  together  ;  who  gave  audience  at  once  to 
the  chaplain  and  the  hair-dresser,  and  joined  in  the 


The  Coquette.  67 

prayers  read  by  the  former,  while  the  skilful  fin- 
gers of  the  latter  twined  the  long  ringlets,  braided 
the  shining  tresses,  or  laced  the  broidered  boddice 
over  the  unsanctified  heart. 

But  if  Amanda  pleads  not  guilty  to  this  grave 
charge,  and  is  virtuously  indignant  at  the  compari- 
son to  those  historic  dames,  those  Helens  of  a  laxer 
age  ;  we  must  venture  to  assure  her  that  there  are 
other  respects  in  which  she  bears  them  too  strong 
a  resemblance  for  denial. 

Like  them,  she  is  somewhat  too  generous  in  the 
revealing  of  her  charms  ;  like  them,  she  will  listen 
unreprovingly  to  words  too  bold,  and  grant  too 
much  to  man's  entreaty  ;  but  she  is  prudent  withal ; 
she  always  pauses,  self-possessed  and  immovable, 
on  the  verge  of  an  indiscretion,  for  it  is  not  the 
compulsive  ardor  of  a  sensuous  nature,  but  a  cold, 
calculating  barter  for  admiration  that  urges  her  to 
the  brink  of  danger. 

But  when  some  true  heart,  wholly  subdued  by 
her  spells,  some  honorable  wooer,  thinks  he  has 
noted  those  "  weather  signs  of  love,"  which  prog- 
nosticate a  happy  suit,  and  the  hour  comes  for  him 
to  ask  that  question  which  is  the  highest  tribute  he 
can  pay  to  womanhood,  how  is  Amanda  moved  by 
the  invitation  to  "  walk  the  long  path  "  by  his  side  ? 
Where  is  the  bashful  tremor  that  runs  through  a 
responsive  heart  \  Where  is  the  mantling  veil  of 
rose  that  seeks  to  enshroud  an  innocent  face  from 
a  lover's  gaze  \     Where  is  the  downcast  look  of 


68  The  Coquette, 

maidenly  confusion,  the  stifled  breath  that  with 
this  strange,  new  joy,  should  choke  her  utterance, 
or  turn  her  words  into  sobs  1  True,  a  flush  is  on 
her  cheek,  but  it  is  the  exultant  flag  uplifted  at 
victory.  The  snowy  lid  falls  over  the  eye,  but  it  is 
to  hide  the  glance  of  triumph.  The  voice  has  a 
faltering  cadence,  but  it  is  not  the  accent  of  wom- 
anly agitation. 

Amanda  feigns  a  most  charming  surprise  at  this 
unexpected  declaration,  she  murmurs  some  in- 
coherent platitudes  about  friendship,  chides  her- 
self for  the  hardness  of  her  heart,  and  is  zealous, 
with  honied  words,  to  pluck  out  the  sting  from  her 
rejection,  that  she  may  not  wholly  lose  one  of  her 
train.  Thus,  year  after  year,  she  plays  her  game, 
with  consummate  tact  and  unflagging  spirit,  and 
daily  counts  the  hearts  she  has  won,  as  religiously 
as  a  devotee  tells  the  beads  of  her  rosary. 

Strange  to  say,  the  French  bullion  of  Amanda's 
attractions  has  brighter  glitter  than  the  true  gold 
of  purer  graces,  and  she  holds  her  empire  longer 
than  many  a  lovelier,  worthier  contemporary. 
Two  or  three  generations  of  lesser  belles  fade 
around  her  before  Time  lays  a  destroying  finger  on 
her  meretricious  charms.  Even  he,  the  remorse- 
less, is  kept  at  bay  by  her  witchcraft. 

But,  in  the  end,  the  law  of  compensation  will  not 
suffer  violence.  We  dare  to  predict  that  the  ret- 
ribution of  one  of  two,  equally  deplorable,  fates, 
is  awaiting  the  conquering  Amanda.     Either  she 


The  Coquette.  69 

will  miss  the  love  of  the  only  man  whose  affection 
she  could  have  returned,  and  will  spend  her  deso- 
late and  uncomforted  age  in  mourning  over  the 
vanished  triumphs  which  were  her  sole  happiness, 
but  which  can  never  return ;  or  else,  just  as  she 
suspects  that  her  light  is  beginning  to  wane,  she 
will  allow  the  most  abject  of  her  admirers,  after 
numberless  petitions,  to  swear  himself  her  slave 
for  life.  But  when  he  humbly  encircles  her  taper 
finger  with  the  golden  round,  the  twain  will 
change  places.  All  the  chains  with  which  Amanda 
has  manacled  others  will  seem  gathered  together, 
and  their  weight  heaped  upon  her  own  spirit ;  all 
the  arrows  she  has  sped  will  fly  back  and  transfix 
her  own  heart.  She  will  find  the  slave  of  yore 
transformed  into  the  most  unsparing  of  tyrants, 
and  the  dethroned  sovereign  will  hopelessly  sink 
into  the  humblest,  dullest,  most  dejected  of  cap- 
tives. 

Hearken,  fair  Amanda,  and  be  warned !  Sur- 
render at  discretion !  Lay  down  thine  arms  at  the 
feet  of  some  worthy  suitor,  yield  thyself  up  trust- 
ingly to  his  mercy,  and  escape  either  destiny  pre- 
dicted. 


THE  MARRIED  FLIRT. 


HO  calls  Melinda  Belmont  a  flirt]  She 
is  only  as  attractive  to  mankind  collec- 
tively as  to  the  one  especial  man  whose 
name  she  bears,  whose  domicile  she  graces  with  a 
regnant  presence  powerfully  suggestive  of  femi- 
nine superiority  and  masculine  nonentity.  A  flirt, 
forsooth  ?  She  will  resent  the  title  with  virtuous 
indignation.  With  a  majestic  uplifting  of  her 
queenly  head,  she  will  ask  you  whether  a  woman, 
when  she  honors  a  man  by  uniting  her  destiny  with 
his,  necessarily  enters  into  a  compact  to  render 
herself  odious  to  the  rest  of  his  sex  1 

Melinda  had  not  won  the  name  of  a  coquette 
before  her  marriage.  A  handsome,  high-spirited 
girl,  striking  in  figure,  captivating  in  manner,  bril- 
liant in  conversation,  and  not  lacking  intellect,  she 
married  young.  Possibly,  she  fancied  herself  in 
love,  or  her  suitor's  delicious  flatteries  made  her  in 
love,  with  herself,  which  she  mistook  for  being  in 
love  with  him  ;  a  very  common  occurrence  !  At  all 
events  she  evinced  no  shrewd,  cold  calculation  in 
choosing  among  her  many  admirers ;  she  neither 
selected  the  Crcesus,  nor  the  Adonis,  but  yielded, 

(7) 


The  Married  Flirt.  71 

in  womanly  fashion,  to  the  most  ardent  wooer.  An 
eligible  partner,  of  course,  none  but  eligible  men 
venture  into  the  arena,  to  struggle  for  such  a  prize. 
Probably,  she  looked  upon  marriage  as  an  inev- 
itable necessity,  the  unavoidable,  and  very  endura- 
ble, destiny  of  womanhood  ;  and,  with  only  sufficient 
reluctance  to  intensify  her  charms,  she  permitted 
the  most  devout  worshipper  to  claim  her  as  his 
idol,  and  enshrine  her  in  his  luxurious  establish- 
ment ;  though  certainly  not  with  the  potential  un- 
derstanding that  his  exclusive  adoration  could 
satisfy  the  needs  of  her  soul. 

Melinda's  marriage  with  Mr.  Belmont,  if  it 
wrought  any  change  in  her  deportment  towards 
other  gentlemen,  only  rendered  her  more  thor- 
oughly at  her  ease  in  their  society,  more  alluring, 
more  delightful !  Her  sallies  of  wit  gained  piqu- 
ancy, her  manner  acquired  more  perfect  aban- 
don, her  beauty  more  brilliant  expression.  Always 
wilful  and  cxigeante,  she  now  grew  half-imperious 
in  appropriating  devotion,  as  though  she  looked 
upon  men  in  general  as  more  entirely  her  slaves 
than  before  she  assumed  the  unfelt  chain  which 
bound  her  to  one  man  in  particular.  Consequently 
the  willing  vassals  became  more  liberal  of  those 
"  sweet  observances,"  those  nameless  indescribable 
attentions  so  gratifying  to  a  woman's  self-love,  be- 
cause they  tacitly  exalt  her  to  a  pedestal,  and  lay 
such  harmless  tributes  upon  the  altar  of  her  van- 
ity. 


72  The  Married  Flirt. 

Melinda  has  an  understanding  with  her  con- 
science which  keeps  it  in  well-bred,  silent  sub- 
jection. The  "  still,  small  voice  within  "  is  dumb, 
though  she  permits  whispered  words  that  might 
startle  ears  for  which  they  were  not  intended ; 
though  she  returns  telegraphic  glances,  whose 
meaning  would  hardly  be  translatable  ;  though  she 
allows  the  soft  pressure  of  her  hand ;  or  wears 
upon  her  proudly  heaving  bosom,  or  in  the  coronal 
braid  that  encircles  her  regal  head,  the  flowers 
some  favored  gallant  gives  her.  She  will  even 
close  her  white  fingers  upon  a  tiny  note,  thrust  un- 
seen into  her  palm  ;  it  may  only  be  "  an  innocent 
bit  of  poetry,"  it  may  be  a  few  words  which  she 
must  have  blushed  if  she  had  heard  uttered, 
though  the  color  that  deepens  into  a  triumphant 
glow  on  her  cheek  can  hardly  be  called  a  blush. 

An  unconquerable  impulse  makes  her  desire  to 
turn  the  head  of  every  man  who  approaches  her, 
literally  to  unsettle  his  mind,  and  her  surpassing 
charms  enable  her  to  carry  her  will  into  execution. 
She  is  emulous  to  subdue  to  her  service  not  one, 
but  all.  None  are  too  high,  none  too  low,  none 
too  great,  none  too  insignificant  for  the  wide- 
spreading  vine  of  vanity  to  twine  its  tendrils 
around,  with  uncliscriminating  grasp,  and  claim  as 
fostering  supports. 

Yet  among  that  group  of  adorers  there  is  always 
one  who  is  the  preferred  of  the  hour.  One  whom 
she  distinguishes  by  claiming  little  services  at  his 


The  Married  Flirt.  73 

hands,  whom  she  permits  to  seek  for  what  she 
wants,  to  wait  upon  her,  to  be  useful  to  her  in  a 
thousand  pleasant  ways.  Above  all,  one  who  un- 
derstands that  he  must  renounce  the  whole  sex  for 
her  sweet  sake,  and  bask  in  no  woman's  smiles,  and 
hang  upon  no  woman's  words,  but  hers.  But,  by 
and  by,  the  fickle  Melinda  grows  tired  of  his  as- 
siduities, discards  the  favorite,  and  indulges  in  all 
the  agreeable  excitement  of  electing  his  successor, 
who  becomes  equally  infatuated,  equally  subser- 
vient to  her  will,  and,  in  time,  equally  wearisome. 

Mr.  Belmont,  if  he  sometimes  feels  Othello  pangs, 
conceals  them  too  carefully  ever  to  be  classed  with 
jealous  husbands.  He  is  virtually  shut  out  of  the 
charmed  circle  which  his  wife's  magic  draws  around 
her.  He  sits  at  a  distance,  trying  to  look  as  though 
he  were  occupied  with  other  interests,  but  secretly 
drinking  in  the  musical  rise  and  fall  of  her  voice, 
softened  to  the  low  tone  of  high  breeding ;  heark- 
ening to  the  rippling  gushes  of  her  exultant  laugh- 
ter ;  listening  to  her  sparkling  thoughts,  sham 
jewels  dropped  into  gilt  setting  of  glittering  words; 
admiring  the  half  voluptuous  contour  of  her  form, 
which  is  strikingly  displayed  by  some  picturesque 
attitude ;  smiling  inwardly  at  the  captivating 
changefulness,  the  bewitching  caprices  that  keep 
her  devotees  on  the  qui  vive  to  watch  her  varying 
moods ,  and  weakly  glorying  in  the  sensation  she 
creates,  the  admiration  she  excites. 

Perhaps  Mr.  Belmont,  who  is  a  man  of  some 

7 


74  The  Married  Flirt. 

sentiment  and  more  feeling,  suppresses  a  sigh  when 
he  remembers  that  the  very  fact  of  calling  this 
peerless  being  his  own,  deprives  him  of  the  happi- 
ness of  enjoying  her  society,  even  of  offering  her 
any  of  the  little  courtesies  which  she  receives  from 
others  with  such  winning  affability,  and  rewards 
with  such  enchanting  looks  and  words.  But  he 
would  not  have  his  best  friend  divine  that  puerile 
regret  for  the  universe !  Fashion,  the  bete  noire  of 
his  imagination,  would  point  her  finger  and  laugh 
at  him  !     Unendurable  calamity  ! 

It  is  generally  admitted  that  Melinda,  as  Mrs. 
Belmont,  is  far  more  attractive  to  gentlemen  than 
she  had  been  as  a  young  girl,  more  fascinating 
than  any  young  girl  can  hope  to  be !  Yet,  be  it 
understood,  that  she  is  never  guilty  of  an  impru- 
dence that  will  risk  her  reputation,  or  furnish 
tempting  food  for  scandal.  The  disease  that  gnaws, 
vulture-like,  at  her  heart,  is  an  insatiable  craving 
for  adulation,  an  unappeasable  hunger  that  would 
make  her  barter  her  birthright  of  womanhood  for 
Flattery's  mess  of  pottage. 

She  would  turn  with  righteous  horror  from  a 
hapless  sister  who  had  lapsed  from  purity,  who 
bore  upon  her  bowed  forehead  the  brand  of  shame, 
upon  her  pale  cheeks  the  furrows  worn  by  peni- 
tential tears.  Melinda  would  draw  aside  her  silken 
garments  from  the  touch  of  such  pollution.  She 
would  never  suspect  that  the  heart  which  beat  be- 
neath her  velvet  bodice  was  full  of  sin  as  foul,  of 


The  Married  Flirt.  75 

fouler  sin,  perchance,  since  unacknowledged  and 
unrepented  of;  sin  not  brought  forth  into  act,  be- 
cause her  coldness,  not  her  chastity,  warded  off 
temptation  ;  because  the  iron  shackles  of  society 
held  her  in  compulsive  restraint.  But  the  bondage 
is  merely  external.  Place  but  a  window  in  Me- 
linda's  bosom,  and  that  "rake  at  heart"  cynical 
Pope  finds  in  woman,  will  have  too  vivid  an  illus- 
tration! 

How  Melinda  conducts  her  household  is  an  en- 
igma we  shall  not  endeavor  to  solve.  She  does 
not  attempt  to  assume  its  rule  with  that  matronly 
dignity  which  proclaims  itself  the  guiding  spirit 
of  the  home  department.  Yet  her  domestic  affairs 
glide  on  with  tolerable  smoothness,  the  wheels  of 
the  machine  being  oiled  with  lavish  extravagance, 
with  waste  sufficient  to  save  half  a  dozen  families 
from  starvation. 

It  has  been  said  that  the  wifely  face  across  the 
breakfast  table  is  the  one  most  likely  to  disenchant 
a  husband.  Perhaps  Melinda  has  too  much  tact 
to  run  the  risk  of  such  a  catastrophe.  At  all 
events,  her  husband's  morning  meal  is  usually  a 
solitary  one.  Mrs.  Belmont  feels  dull  at  the  hour 
when  the  flowers  are  brightest,  the  birds  sing 
sweetest,  and  Nature's  dewy  eyes  open  with  their 
most  refreshing  smile.  Languidly  indolent,  Me- 
linda retreats  into  the  chrysalis  shell  of  her  wrap- 
per, and  quietly  mopes,  like  any  veritable  caterpil- 
lar, in  its  transition  state.     But  when  the  day  is 


76  The  Married  Flirt 

nearly  spent,  (alas !  spent  to  what  purpose  ?)  the 
papilia  comes  forth  in  May-day  glory,  flies  through 
a  round  of  fashionable  visits,  or  alights  among  the 
flowers  in  her  drawing-room,  to  hold  her  court  at 
home. 

Mr.  Belmont  returns  from  his  business  to  a  late 
dinner,  and  finds  that  some  of  Melinda's  friends 
have  dropped  in  and  been  invited  to  remain.  A 
tete-a-tete  repast  with  her  husband  is  an  event  of 
rarest  occurrence.  Anything  so  prosy  should  nat- 
urally be  avoided ;  and  would  it  not  be  absurd  to 
waste  such  an  elaborate  toilet  on  him  ?  How- 
ever negligent  her  morning  costume,  she  is  now 
attired  with  faultless  taste.  Everything  she  wears 
becomes  her  a  mcrveille.  Her  dress  evinces  the 
most  exquisite  perception  of  les  nuances  —  for  she 
never  accidentally  shocks  a  fastidious  eye  by  the 
inharmonious  mingling  of  color.  At  table  she  has 
more  the  air  of  a  guest  than  hostess,  but  her  hus- 
band does  the  honors  with  evident  pleasure  ;  no 
wonder,  it  is  almost  the  only  occasion  upon  which 
he  ceases  to  be  a  cipher,  if  he  does  not  positively 
"  make  a  figure." 

In  the  evening  she  has  generally  some  engage- 
ment ;  she  has  arranged  to  attend  a  concert,  the 
opera,  the  theatre,  a  lecture  perhaps,  or  a  ball,  or 
a  reception.  Her  husband,  if  not  too  much  wear- 
ied by  the  duties  of  the  day,  accompanies  her ;  but 
it  is  not  upon  his  arm  she  leans  ;  that  would  be 
outre,  and  so  ridiculously  Darby-and- Joan  like  ! 


The  Married  Flirt.  77 

If  perchance  she  remains  at  home,  there  are  al- 
ways plenty  of  visitors,  principally  young  men, 
who  will  help  her  to  chase  the  evening  hours. 
And  Melinda  plays  and  sings  to  them,  with  her 
eyes  glancing  up  and  down,  and  now  and  then 
resting  upon  some  enraptured  listener,  who  leans 
over  the  piano  and  drinks  in  the  amorous  words  as 
though  they  were  addressed  to  him.  Are  they 
not,  for  the  moment  ? 

The  society  of  her  own  sex  Melinda  cannot 
abide.  She  scoffs  at  female  friendships  ;  talking 
to  a  woman  bores  her  more  than  listening  to  a  ser- 
mon. Caresses  of  women,  to  her,  are  positively 
sickening.  Their  tenderness  —  bah !  it  is  all  af- 
fectation, assumed  to  make  them  look  interesting ! 
She  well  knows  the  pretty  dears  hate  each  other 
heartily,  and  would  rather  bite  than  kiss,  if  they 
dared  to  be  natural. 

Melinda  is  a  childless  wife.  A  child's  innocent 
touch  would  have  opened  a  chamber  in  her  breast 
and  let  a  saving  angel  in  to  tear  the  false  god,  Self, 
from  its  altar.  A  child's  holy  breath  would  have 
blown  away  some  of  this  earth-dust  gathered  upon 
her  soul,  and  clogging  all  its  heavenly  motions. 
A  child's  guileless  lingers  would  have  drawn  the 
wife's  hand  into  that  of  her  husband,  and  turned 
her  face  to  his  by  the  magnetism  of  mutual  inter- 
est in  one  beloved  object,  at  whose  feet  their  sym- 
pathies could  meet  and  embrace.     Yet  she  rejoices 

7* 


78  The  Married  Flirt 

to  be  spared  the  cares  of  maternity !  As  well  re- 
joice that  she  has  foregone  salvation ! 

Thus  passes  Melinda's  budding  spring  and  sum- 
mer bloom.  But  the  canker-worm  in  the  fruit  has 
wrought  decay  where  should  be  autumnal  mellow- 
ness. Her  charms,  almost  before  they  reach  ma- 
turity, begin  to  fleet,  in  spite  of  all  the  detaining 
art3  of  her  toilet.  Her  once  worshipped  mirror 
becomes  a  taunting  torment.  Years  write  their 
record  in  ungracious  lines  across  her  brow,  for  no 
noble  emotions,  no  high  actions  have  beautified 
the  chronicle.  Inexorable  Time  quenches  the  fire 
of  her  eyes,  and  his  attendant  crows  leave  the 
pressure  of  unsightly  feet  at  the  corners.  Her 
features,  once  so  finely  cut,  grow  sharp  and  harsh. 
Her  "  pretty  petulance "  degenerates  into  irrita- 
bility. Her  voice  has  caught  a  piercing  shrillness 
which  strikes  the  ear  like  a  bayonet's  point ;  pos- 
sibly it  is  that  tone  which  makes  her  repartee 
sound  so  much  more  cutting,  so  much  less  mirth- 
provoking  than  of  yore. 

There  is  no  longer  a  flutter  of  excitement  when 
she  enters  a  crowd.  The  men  who  once  gathered 
around  her  stand  aloof,  unconscious  of  her  pres- 
ence, or  hover  about  some  younger  married  flirt, 
who  has  jostled  her  from  her  pedestal  in  Vanity 
Fair.  Poor  Melinda  makes  desperate  efforts  to 
lure  back  the  recreants,  but  the  very  exertion  ren- 
ders her  manner  forced,  distressingly  restless,  peev- 
ish, exacting.     Her  failing  assumption  of  juvenile 


The  Married  Flirt.  79 

airs  and  graces  is  painfully  ludicrous,  it  is  but  an 
awkward  caricaturing  of  her  former  self. 

What  has  the  weary,  dreary,  faded,  jaded  wreck  of 
brilliant  womanhood  to  fall  back  upon'?  What  conso- 
solation  —  what  refuge  is  hers  ?  Is  there  none  to  be 
found  in  her  husband's  sheltering  arms  ]  No ;  he  is 
tired  at  last,  of  his  youthful  idolatry.  In  his  own  house 
he  has  never  had  a  snug,  quiet  corner,  an  especial 
arm-chair,  where  he  might  sit,  in  dressing-gown 
and  slippers,  with  that  solace  of  manhood,  a  news- 
paper, in  his  hand,  and  he  has  gradually  sought 
the  society  of  men,  the  club-room,  or  the  card-table 
as  a  substitute  for  the  fireside  of  home.  It  is  too 
late  for  Melinda  to  turn  to  him  and  seek,  in  his 
long  slighted  devotion,  repayment  for  the  neglect 
of  the  world;  too  late  to  find  herself  rejuvenescent 
through  her  husband's  love,  as  Michelet  maintains 
that  a  woman  may  be.  Her  bitterest  retribution 
comes  through  an  instinctive  but  tardy  knowledge 
that  there  must  be  a  joy,  she  never  tasted,  in  re- 
posing upon  one  true  heart,  without  fear  of 
change ;  a  happiness  beyond  her  conception,  in 
hoping  for  and  hoping  with,  in  soothing  and  being 
soothed  by  another  self;  in  clinging  to  one  who 
needs  her,  whose  life  is  incomplete  without  her  ; 
who  makes  her  proudly  glad  in  the  consciousness 
that  whatever  she  may  not  be  to  others,  she  is  all 
in  all  to  him. 

But  this  comfort  shall  never  be  hers  ;  and  the 
desolate,  dethroned  sovereign  looks  with  envious 


80  The  Married  Flirt. 

eyes  upon  the  unambitious  wife,  her  youthful  con- 
temporary, who  never  dreamed  of  being  a  belle, 
whom  Melinda  scorned  for  her  even,  unpretentious 
ways,  but  who  still  retains  a  lingering  freshness, 
a  kindly  warmth,  a  serene  vivacity,  a  soul-renewed 
loveliness  that  have  preserved  a  husband's  devotion 
intact,  and  won  from  time-tried  friends  reverence 
and  tenderness  in  abundance,  and  now  make  the 
nonpareil  beauty  of  other  days  reflect  despairingly 
upon  her  wasted  opportunities,  her  hollow  and 
valueless  existence,  and  inwardly  murmur,  "  Oh, 
that  I  could  change  places  with  her,  here  and 
hereafter ! " 


AN  OLD  MAID. 


N  old  maid !  Was  there  ever  woman  so 
wise  that  she  could  hear  the  obnoxious 
title  applied  to  herself  without  a  sup- 
pressed sigh?  Though  few  are  the  old  maids  who 
might  not  have  been  wives  if  they  had  so  willed, 
the  sense  of  incompleteness,  of  undeveloped  ca- 
pacities, of  unfulfilled  duties,  perforce  will  cause  a 
passing  pang. 

But  who  that  knows  Miriam  Pleasance  feels  that 
the  life  of  an  old  maid  is  necessarily  dreary,  profit- 
less, colorless?  And  is  Miriam  an  old  maid? 
Damsels,  in  the  primrose  season  of  youth,  for 
whom  the  wedding  ring  binds,  in  its  charmed  cir- 
cle, the  manifold  joys  of  an  ideal  Elysium,  mock- 
ingly call  her  so ;  happy  mothers,  about  whose 
necks  twine  the  chubby  arms  of  cherub  childhood, 
keeping  "low  and  wise"  the  "vines  that  bear  such 
fruit,"  pityingly  call  her  so ;  broken-hearted  wives 
whose  shattered  idols  prove  all  clay  and  ashes, 
whose  pale  lips,  wreathed  in  smiles,  veil,  with 
Spartan  heroism,  the  vulture  preying  on  their 
souls,  indignantly  call  her  so.  But  mark  how 
men,  intellectual,  thinking,  feeling  men,  hesitate 

(81) 


82  An  Old  Maid. 

to  apply  the  ungallant  appellation  to  sweet  Mir- 
iam. Perhaps  they  are  tongue-tied  by  that  vague 
charm  about  her  which  half  cheats  one  into  the 
belief  that  she  carries  in  her  vestal  bosom  some 
mystical  light,  ("  the  lamp  of  human  love,")  and 
lets  fall  its  radiance  on  the  path  she  treads,  on  the 
hearth  where  she  sits,  on  the  face  into  which  she 
gazes.  Certain  it  is  that  all  are  strangely  bright- 
ened by  her  presence. 

Man  recognizes  the  magic  of  a  cheerful  influ- 
ence in  woman  more  quickly,  and  more  willingly, 
than  the  potency  of  dazzling  genius,  of  command- 
ing worth,  or  even  of  enslaving  beauty.  Thus 
men,  in  general,  value  Miriam's  especial  gift  above 
the  more  brilliant  endowments  of  her  favored  sis- 
ters. 

In  stature,  Miriam  is  below  the  medium  height. 
A  form  not  voluptuously  rounded  nor  charmingly 
fragile,  but  a  neat,  compact  little  figure,  supple 
and  light  of  motion.  Not  a  single  feature  of  her 
countenance  can  be  termed  beautiful,  yet  the 
whole  face  possesses  a  mobility,  a  capacity  for 
rapidly  varying  expression,  an  indefinable  harmo- 
ny that  produce  the  effect  of  beauty.  Her  white 
teeth  sparkle  between  flexible  lips,  her  black  eyes 
dance  and  shine  through  jetty  fringes,  her  dark 
hair,  fine  but  not  abundant,  is  knotted  with  pecu- 
liar grace  at  the  back  of  an  admirably  balanced 
head. 

Her  dress  is  usually  of  some  neutral  tint,  a  sil- 


An  Old  Maid.  83 

ver  gray,  a  delicate  fawn,  or  a  soft  dove  color, 
lighted  up  and  relieved  by  the  gleam  of  crimson, 
or  dark  blue,  or  purple  ribbons. 

Then  her  age  ;  she  has  passed  the  season  of 
youth,  of  summer  perhaps,  and  is  verging  upon 
autumn.  A  rich,  mellow  autumn,  an  autumn  full 
of  gorgeous  tints,  an  autumn  whose  forest  leaves 
turn  to  scarlet  and  gold  without  withering,  an  au- 
tumn that  makes  one  think  the  spring-time  could 
hardly  have  been  so  beautiful.  True,  the  dewy, 
evanescent,  morning  freshness  is  gone,  but  in  its 
place  reigns  the  more  lasting,  self-renewed  fresh- 
ness of  mental  and  physical  vigor.  In  a  word, 
Miriam  has  reached  and  passed  the  green  ascent 
of  thirty-five,  and  is  calmly  descending  the  ver- 
dant slope  beyond.  But  life  has  been  all  gain  to 
her;  she  has  gathered  fruits  of  knowledge,  and 
flowers  of  beauty,  and  herbs  of  balm  on  the  way, 
and  lost  nothing  she  does  not  think  it  well  to  part 
with,  in  exchange. 

We  have  seldom  met  with  an  old  maid,  upon 
the  pages  of  whose  early  history  there  was  not 
some  love  tale  inscribed,  some  story  of  unrequited 
affection,  of  betrayed  hopes,  of  love  sacrificed  to 
duty,  or,  of  the  grave's  untimely  snatching  away. 
But,  strange  to  say,  there  is  no  love-tale  written 
upon  Miriam's  book  of  life.  She  could  never 
have  been  numbered  among  that  large  class  of 
maidens  who,  according  to  Rasselas,  "  think  they 
are  in  love,  when  in  fact  they  are  only  idle."     Her 


84  An  Old  Maid. 

intellect  is  too  highly  cultivated,  her  penetration 
too  acute,  her  life  too  active  for  her  to  form  an 
attachment  through  the  mere  "  besoin  d 'aimer"  the 
longing,  though  often  unconscious  desire  to  be 
loved  and  protected,  which  is  the  secret  spring  of 
half  the  so-called  love-matches  in  the  world.  A 
young  girl's  affections,  like  graceful  tendrils  formed 
to  cling,  too  often  twine  themselves  around  the  ob- 
ject nearest  and  most  inviting,  with  no  other  vin- 
dication save  that  it  was  near  and  invited. 


Seeing  that  to  waste  true  love  on  anything 
Is  womanly  past  question." 


But  if  Miriam  unconsciously  admits  that  love  is 
a  "  grand  necessity  "  of  existence,  she  feels  that 
existence  has  other  necessities.  To  bestow  her 
heart,  her  judgment  must  approve  the  gift,  and 
she  has  not  encountered  the  being  (though  doubt- 
less such  exists)  who  could  win  the  one  with  the 
approval  of  the  other.  This  is  the  sole  secret  of 
her  freedom. 

Had  Miriam  been  thrown  upon  her  own  resour- 
ces to  gain  a  livelihood,  her  energy  of  character, 
and  her  delight  in  use,  would  have  impelled  her  to 
fill  and  dignify  some  of  the  few  intellectual  avoca- 
tions which  woman's  hands  and  brains  are  allowed 
to  grace.  Her  birth  and  wealth  forbid,  yet  the 
current  of  life,  with  such  an  organization,  can 
never  become  stagnant.     Occupation  is  enjoyment. 


An  Old  Maid.  85 

Her  perceptions  are  keenly  alive  to  discover  the 
work  that  is  spread  for  her  hands,  and  to  do  it  when 
found.  She  religiously  believes  that  there  is  work, 
Heaven-allotted,  to  all,  in  the  great  vineyard  of  the 
world,  and  that  our  work  lies  jus»t  within  our  grasp, 
if  we  will  but  look  for  and  recognize  the  task. 
"  Labor  is  worship  !  "  says  the  prophet.  "  Labor 
is  worship !  "  responds  every  throbbing  pulse  in 
Miriam's  well-attuned  frame.  Like  the  woman  of 
Bethany  who  poured  the  perfumed  ointment  (her 
humble  tribute  of  love)  upon  the  head  of  her 
Lord,  she  "  did  what  she  could  ?  "  What  she  could  % 
What  more  could  be  required  of  her  %  Do  what 
we  can,  as  much  as  we  can,  all  we  can !  Oh,  how 
large  would  be  the  sum  of  works  of  the  very 
humblest,  feeblest,  poorest,  when  counted  up  in 
the  Hereafter,  if  they  only  "  did  what  they  could !  " 
Alas  !  for  the  thousand  opportunities  of  minister- 
ing and  comforting  thrown  daily  in  our  pathway, 
while  we  pass  by  on  the  other  side  through  sheer 
unconcern,  through  "  lack  of  thought  "  rather  than 
"  lack  of  heart !  "  Will  they  not  rise  up  to  con- 
vict us  when  we  render  the  account  of  our  steward- 
ship in  the  great  day. 

With  such  thoughts  ever  quickening  her  to  ac- 
tion, Miriam  takes  a  lively,  never  failing  interest 
in  all  things  around  her.  No  fellow-creature  is  in- 
different to  her.  She  regards  all  with  a  tender 
sympathy,  a  sympathy  which  breaks  unaware 
through    cold    conventionalities,   and    fraternizes 


86  An  Old  Maid. 

with  beings  too  seldom  recognized  as  members  of 
the  human  family.  Towards  the  sick,  the  poor, 
the  sad,  the  suffering  in  any  shape,  her  hand  is  un- 
hesitatingly stretched  out.  They  need  no  creden- 
tials save  the  stamp  of  sadness,  sickness,  poverty, 
and  prompt  aid  is  true  aid.  She  seems  endowed 
with  God's  special  license  to  console,  to  translate 
mysterious  sorrows  into  promised  joys,  to  strengthen 
the  weak,  to  soften  the  hard,  to  reconcile  the  re- 
bellious. 

The  history  of  any  one  day  of  her  life  would  fill 
chapters  with  scenes  of  anguish,  of  passion,  of 
hope,  of  happy  consummations,  that  might  adorn 
the  pages  of  a  romance. 

Thus,  Miriam,  "  the  old  maid,"  is  not  less  happy, 
less  useful,  less  beloved  than  the  wife  and  mother 
whose  heart  and  hands  are  full  of  alternate  cares 
and  blessings.  Those  upon  whose  path  of  life  the 
smile  of  Miriam  Pleasance  shines,  never  after  speak 
scornfully  of  an  "  old  maid."  We  entertain  but 
one  fear  for  Miriam ;  it  is  that  she  will  not  always 
bear  the  vestal  title  around  which  she  has  woven 
such  an  indescribable  charm. 


A  PLETHORA  OF  HAPPINESS. 


ISS  MERRI  WETHER,  I  believe  \ " 

The  young  lady  addressed  courtesied 
assent,  and  glanced  enquiringly  at  the 
speaker.  Possibly  there  was  an  unconscious  dash 
of  admiration  in  that  transient  survey.  The  gen- 
tleman who  stood  before  her  was  somewhat  over 
six  feet  in  height.  His  bearing  was  remarkably 
manly,  a  mingling  of  the  soldier  and  courtier ; 
perhaps  it  was  rather  too  stately,  but  graceful 
withal.  He  had  large,  hazel  eyes,  a  florid  com- 
plexion, faultless  mouth  and  teeth,  close-curling, 
chestnut  hair,  a  moustache  and  beard  of  such  silk- 
en luxuriance  that  it  could  never  have  been  pro- 
faned by  a  razor. 

"  I  am  Angelica  Willington's  husband,"  was  his 
reply  to  the  lady's  look  of  interrogation. 

"  Mr.  Willington !  I  am  delighted  to  know  you," 
exclaimed  Ruth  Merriwether,  extending  her  hand, 
with  hearty  cordiality. 

"  Not  move  delighted  than  Angelica  and  I  were 
when  we  heard  of  your  unexpected  arrival  in 
Charleston.     Angelica  is  such  an  invalid  that  she 

(87) 


88  A  Plethora  of  Happiness. 

did  not  feel  able  to  call,  but  she  charged  me  to 
bring  you  to  her  at  once." 

"  I  shall  be  truly  rejoiced  to  see  my  dear  school- 
mate again,"  answered  Ruth.  "  But  is  Angelica 
an  invalid  ?  How  strange  !  When  we  wrere  girls, 
at  school  together,  —  that's  little  more  than  six 
years  ago,  —  she  was  the  very  realization  of 
Moore's 

•  Young  Envoy  sent  by  health, 
With  rosy  gifts  upon  her  cheeks.' 

She  never  had  an  ache  or  a  pain.     What  ails  her  ? 
What  is  her  disease  ?  " 

"  I  really  cannot  say,"  answered  Mr.  Willington, 
with  a  sigh ;  "  and  the  doctors  don't  seem  to 
know.  Yet,  she  is  never  well ;  she  has  lost  her 
strength  and  spirits,  and  is  a  confirmed  invalid.  I 
should  be  eternally  indebted  to  any  one  who  could 
discover  what  is  the  matter  with  her." 

"  Suppose  I  try  to  win  that  debt  of  endless  grat- 
itude. I  have  had  quite  an  extensive  experience 
in  the  sick  room.  Perhaps  I  may  discover  her 
ailment." 

Mr.  Willington's  answering  smile  was  one  of 
politeness,  not  a  confiding  response  to  Ruth's  prof- 
fer. He  was  too  courteous  to  express  his  lack  of 
faith  in  the  skill  of  this  unimposing  physician  in 
crinoline. 

"  Angelica  is  anxiously  awaiting  you ;  my  car- 
riage is  at  the  door ;  will  you  not  be  ready  soon, 
Miss  Merriwether  I " 


A  Plethora  of  Happiness,  89 

Buth's  preparations  were  few,  and  rapidly  made. 
The  quickness  of  her  movements  betokened  habit- 
ual activity.  The  elasticity  of  her  very  step  was 
suggestive  of  mental  energy.  Her  figure  was  petite 
but  wonderfully  supple,  and  under  the  influence 
of  any  elevating  emotion,  seemed  to  heighten  sud- 
denly. Her  face,  constantly  glowing  with  anima- 
tion, often  warmed  into  beauty  without  possessing 
a  single  perfect  feature. 

In  a  few  moments  she  was  seated  in  Mr.  Wil- 
lington's  splendid  barouche,  and  drawn  rapidly 
through  the  streets  of  Charleston  by  a  pair  of 
horses  which  were  the  envy  of  all  connoisseurs  of 
the  noble  animal. 

Mr.  Willington  was  an  opulent  planter  of  South 
Carolina.  The  aristocracy  of  Charleston  is  per- 
haps the  most  exclusive  in  the  United  States ;  and 
his  birth,  education,  courtly  manners,  and  remark- 
ably fine  person,  rendered  him  one  of  its  chief  or- 
naments. 

He  was  a  strict  observer  of  the  laws  of  etiquette, 
and  of  all  social  conventionalities  and  proprieties. 
His  high  breeding  was  especially  evinced  in  his 
deportment  to  the  gentler  sex.  There  was  a  sort 
of  chivalric  protection,  a  polite  forbearance,  a  pat- 
ronizing tenderness  in  his  demeanor  towards  them, 
which  distinctly  proclaimed  his  own  sense  of  supe- 
riority, through  the  very  fact  of  his  manhood,  and 
his  conviction  that  these  "  dear  helpless  creatures  " 
were  not  designed  to  rise  out  of  the  sphere  of  pet- 


90  A  Plethora  of  Happiness. 

ted  childhood,  and  could  never  become  equals,  or 
even  intelligent  companions.  "  Mind"  to  him  was 
of  masculine  gender,  and  he  had  no  faith  in  the 
existence  of  a  "  woman  of  mind"  who  was  not  un- 
feminine.  According  to  his  creed,  womanhood 
should  ignore  aesthetic  tastes,  and  for  her  to  show 
any  disposition 

"  To  ponder  the  precipitous  sides 
Of  difficult  questions,1' 

was  a  social  crime. 

To  have  discovered  some  electric  sparks  of  genius 
accidentally  flashing  from  the  lips  or  the  pen  of  his 
wife,  would  have  rendered  him  the  most  miserable 
of  men.  Perhaps  he  was  not  very  unreasonable 
in  that  respect.  Genius,  with  her  airy  flights,  her 
vivid  imagination,  her  quick  sensibilities,  her  ab- 
straction, her  states  of  alternate  exaltation  and 
melancholy,  so  incomprehensible  to  matter-of-fact 
natures,  is  too  seldom  an  agreeable  fireside  com- 
panion. Men  hardly  care  to  see  a  Sappho  or  a 
Corinne  sitting  opposite  to  them  at  the  breakfast 
table.  Laurels  are  a  nuisance  on  the  hearthstone 
of  home  ;  fling  them  into  the  flames,  or  sweep  them 
up  with  the  ashes  ! 

Angelica  Raymond  was  the  daughter  of  a  Phil- 
adelphia banker.  Mr.  Willington  met  her  at  New- 
port, a  little  less  than  six  years  before  the  period 
at  which  we  have  introduced  him  to  the  reader. 
She  was  the  reigning  belle  of  the  season,  a  sylph- 


A  Plethora  of  Happiness.  91 

like  beauty,  just  seventeen,  with  fair  hair,  dreamy 
blue  eyes,  and  no  very  striking  traits  of  character, 
The  gallant  Southerner  beheld  his  beau  ideal  of 
womanhood,  and  fell  madly  in  love  with  her.  An- 
gelica's heart  was  soon  melted  by  his  ardent  woo- 
ing. She  bestowed  upon  her  large  circle  of  ad- 
mirers the  most  graceful  bow  of  dismissal,  and 
her  hand  upon  the  chivalrous  Southerner. 

In  the  autumn,  he  carried  his  bride  to  his  lux- 
urious home  in  Charleston,  surrounded  her  with 
all  the  appliances  of  wealth,  and  gratified  her 
caprices,  until  she  found  it  a  positive  effort  to  think 
of  anv thins:  more  which  she  could  desire. 

During  the  five  years  of  her  married  life,  first  a 
little  son,  and  then  a  daughter  had  taught  her  ears 
the  holy  music  of  the  word  "  Mother  !  " 

Was  she  happy  %  Perhaps  she  did  not  ask  her- 
self the  question  precisely  in  that  form.  She  was 
conscious  that  she  was  weary,  lonely,  constantly 
ennuyee,  and  she  soon  pronounced  herself  to  be  in 
feeble  health.  How  many  of  the  lovely  valetudi- 
narians who  daily  excite  our  pity  are  simply  lovely 
idlers !  How  often  is  supposed  ill  health  a  pas- 
time that  ends  in  the  retribution  of  a  frightful 
reality ! 

Angelica  had  no  apparent  need  for  exertion,  and 
she  made  none.  Her  children  were  tenderly  cared 
for  by  devoted  colored  domestics,  old  family  serv- 
ants. Each  little  one  had  a  "  mammy  "  appropria- 
ted to  its  service  as  soon  as  it  was  born,  and  these 


92  A  Plethora  of  Hajjpitiess. 

faithful  guardians  perfectly  idolized  their  young 
charges,  giving  them  open  preference  over  their 
own  children.  And  the  little  nurslings,  with  dawn- 
ing intelligence,  learned  to  love  their  "  mammies  " 
as  well,  if  not  better,  than  their  own  mother. 

As  for  Angelica's  household  arrangements,  they 
were  attended  to  by  servants  who  thoroughly  un- 
derstood their  duties,  and  performed  them  with 
pride  and  pleasure.  They  would  have  been 
shocked,  would  have  thought  it  a  degradation  of 
herself  and  a  rebuke  to  them,  if  their  young  mis- 
tress had  ventured  to  occupy  herself  with  do- 
mestic concerns.  She  gave  a  few  languid  orders 
every  morning,  and  her  labors  for  the  day  were 
over.  She  was  fond  of  her  children,  because  they 
were  lovely  and  endearing :  but  she  saw  them  very 
seldom.  She  loved  her  husband  with  a  dependent, 
leaning,  up-looking  affection,  which  threw  the  very 
burden  of  thinking  upon  another,  a  species  of 
attachment  which  is  particularly  gratifying  to  such 
men  as  Mr.  Willington.  But  of  that  sweet  as- 
sociation, that  constant  interchange  of  thought,  that 
community  of  feeling  in  which  the  charm  of  mar- 
riage lies,  Mr.  Willington  and  his  young  wife 
knew  nothing. 

Mr.  Willington,  though  he  had  not  ceased  to  ad- 
mire the  beauty  of  Angelica,  though  he  honored 
her  as  his  wife,  the  mother  of  his  children,  the  head 
of  his  household,  a  being  that  especially  apper- 
tained to  him ;  though  he  was  proud  of  her,  and 


A  Plethora  of  Happiness.  93 

had  a  positive  tenderness  for  her,  never  thought  of 
her  in  the  light  of  a  companion,  a  counsellor,  a 
friend.  To  be  obliged  to  pass  an  evening  in  her 
drawing-room,  unless  he  was  discharging  the  du- 
ties of  host  to  a  circle  of  guests,  wearied  him  in- 
tensely. He  found  more  congenial  amusement  at 
his  club,  at  young  men's  card  parties,  at  horse  ra- 
ces, during  the  season  of  that  fashionable  Charles- 
ton amusement,  anywhere,  but  at  his  own  fireside. 
And  yet,  there  sat  the  being  whom  he  had  so  ar- 
dently loved,  so  passionately  worshipped,  less  than 
six  years  before,  and  who  was  still  the  personifi- 
cation of  loveliness,  but  a  lovely  nullity  ! 

The  husband  left  her  in  perfect  freedom  to  oc- 
cupy or  amuse  herself  in  any  way  that  she  fancied, 
provided  always  that  she  did  nothing  conspicuous, 
however  good  or  useful ;  nothing  that  would  attract 
public  attention,  applause  or  admiration,  except 
indeed  the  legitimate  admiration  to  which  every 
beauty  is  entitled  in  the  ball  room.  His  great  fear 
was,  not  that  some  of  life's  responsibilities  might 
remain  unfulfilled,  but  a  dread  that  the  hidden 
sanctity  of  his  home  might  be  invaded  by  public 
comment.  He  had  nothing  to  fear  from  An- 
gelica. Her  indolence  was  an  impenetrable  shield, 
no  flash  of  intellect  was  likely  to  force  its  way 
through  that  barrier,  and  betray  itself  by  some 
startling  action. 

Angelica  had  not  seen  Ruth  Merriwether  for 
nearly  six  years.     The  young  wife,  after  her  mar- 


94  A  Plethora  of  Happiness. 

riage,  instead  of  encountering  the  fatigues  of  a 
journey  to  the  North,  had  passed  her  summers  at 
some  of  the  fashionable  springs  of  Virginia,  while 
her  husband  travelled  about,  and  paid  her  and  the 
children  occasional  visits. 

"  Here  we  are  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Willington,  as 
the  carriage  drew  up  before  a  stately  mansion, 
embowered  by  groups  of  magnolia  trees,  and 
standing  in  a  spacious  garden.  Roses,  honey- 
suckle, and  jessamine,  clambered  together  up  the 
porch,  and  their  long  tendrils,  floating  in  the 
breeze,  formed  an  archway  of  natural  garlands 
over  the  entrance.  Ruth  sprang  from  the  carriage 
and  ascended  the  marble  steps  without  noticing 
Mr.  Willington's  punctiliously-offered  aid ;  for,  as 
the  equipage  stopped,  the  street  door  opened,  and 
Angelica  stood  on  the  threshold.  The  friends  em- 
braced warmly. 

44  Come  in,  let  me  beg  you  to  come  in,  Miss  Mer- 
riwether,"  said  Mr.  Willington,  offering  his  arm  to 
Ruth.  He  had  a  nervous  horror  of  anything  so 
like  public  display  as  this  womanly  greeting,  even 
beneath  that  screen  of  blossoming  vines. 

Ruth  obeyed,  but  without  accepting  his  arm,  for 
hers  was  about  Angelica's  waist. 

They  had  scarcely  entered  the  drawing-room, 
when  the  latter  sank  into  her  usual  languid,  half- 
reclining  attitude  upon  the  sofa.  Ruth  sat  beside 
her,  fondly  scanning  her  face  as  she  chatted  mer- 
rily. 


Plethora  of  Happiness.  95 

The  young  wife  was  attired  in  a  rose-colored 
silk  wrapper,  trimmed  with  rows  of  narrow  black 
velvet,  and  edged  with  black  lace.  The  skirt  be- 
neath was  of  finest  embroidery.  Her  sleeves,  open 
to  the  shoulders,  disclosed  her  round,  white  arms. 
The  long,  shining  ringlets  that  used  to  float  over 
her  shoulders,  were  looped  up  beneath  a  tiny, 
Marie  Stuart  cap  of  honiton  lace.  The  toilet  of 
an  invalid  became  her.  She  looked  supremely 
beautiful  in  spite  of  the  weary,  listless  expression 
which  quickly  returned  to  her  face,  and  seemed  to 
be  its  habitual  look.  The  roses  that  Ruth  so  well 
remembered,  had  somewhat  faded  from  her  cheeks, 
and  her  eyes  were  consequently  less  brilliant. 
These,  and  the  look  of  hopeless  lassitude  which 
Ruth  had  never  seen  upon  that  countenance  before, 
were  the  only  changes  that  she  could  detect. 

Ruth,  who  had  a  quick  eye  for  the  tasteful  and 
beautiful,  glanced  admiringly  around  the  room. 
The  floor,  of  polished  oak,  reflected  objects  like  a 
mirror.  The  luxurious  furniture  had  no  northern 
stiffness  and  show-aspect;  evidently  it  was  all  in- 
tended for  use.  Pictures  and  statues,  and  objects 
of  virtu  were  intermingled  with  costly  vases  filled 
with  the  most  exquisite  flowers,  and  hanging-bas- 
kets, from  which  long  branches  of  the  yellow  jes- 
samine waved  like  a  golden  drapery,  and  shed  a 
delicious  perfume  throughout  the  apartment. 

Ruth  exclaimed  with  enthusiasm,  "What  mag- 
nificent flowers  !     I  never  saw  more  brilliant  col- 


96  A  Plethora  of  Happiness. 

ors  !  What  perfect  roses  !  That  yellow  jessamine 
is  gorgeous  !  I  suppose  you  gathered  these  in  your 
own  garden  \ " 

Angelica  looked  up  as  if  she  had  not  noticed  the 
floral  decorations  before.  "  They  are  pretty,"  she 
answered,  with  an  indifferent  air.  "  I  did  not 
gather  them,  that's  Arena's  province  ;  she  always 
keeps  the  vases  and  baskets  supplied ;  she  has  de- 
cided taste  that  way." 

"Have  you  any  commands,  Angelica  I  "  asked 
Mr.  Willington.  "  I  will  leave  you  ladies  togeth- 
er. I  hope  to  see  Miss  Merriwether  at  dinner 
time.     Good  morning." 

As  Mr.  Willington  passed  the  sofa  upon  which 
his  wife  was  lying,  he  stooped  and  touched  her 
forehead  lightly  with  his  lips,  as  was  his  wont  on 
leaving  the  house  for  the  day. 

Angelica  received  the  caress  without  returning 
and  apparently  without  noticing  it,  for  no  change 
of  expression  passed  over  her  features.  Not  that 
the  salutation  gave  her  no  pleasure,  she  might 
have  felt  wounded  if  had  it  been  forgotten,  but  she 
did  not  deem  it  necessary  to  make  the  exertion  of 
a  response,  and  her  husband  evidently  expected 
nothing  of  the  kind. 

"  Now,  Angelica,  dear,"  said  Euth,  taking  the 
little  white  hand,  almost  heavy  with  its  wealth  of 
sparkling  gems,  in  both  of  hers,  "  tell  me  what  ails 
you?" 

"  I  can't  tell ;  I  don't  know/ 


A  Plethora  of  Happiness.  97 

"  But  do  you  suffer  ?     Are  you  really  ill  \ " 

"  Of  course,  certainly !  and  I  have  such  head- 
aches !  everything  gives  me  a  headache,  and  I  am 
wretchedly  low  spirited  !  " 

"Low  spirited!    why,  you  have  everything  to 
make  you  happy,  have  you  not  ?  " 
*  "  Yes,  everything,  I  believe,  everything  in  the 
world  !  "  and  she  sighed  heavily. 

"  Perhaps  you  do  not  take  exercise  enough.  Do 
you  walk  out,  or  ride  out  every  day,  and  move 
about,  and  occupy  yourself  with  the  household 
matters,  and  with  the  little  ones  ? " 

"  I  have  not  the  strength  for  all  that,  besides  it 
is  not  needful.  The  nurses  look  after  the  children 
and  are  devoted  to  them.  I  have  admirable  ser- 
vants, they  take  charge  of  the  household.  As  for, 
walking,  I  don't  walk  ;  what's  the  use  of  walking,) 
when  one  can  drive  ?  I  don't  ride  because  it's  too' 
conspicuous  ;  but  I  drive  out  when  the  weather  is' 
fine  and  I  am  in  the  mood." 

"  How  can  you  expect  to  feel  bright  and  buoy- 
ant and  well,  dear,  if  you  break  all  physical  and 
mental  laws  ?  It  is  only  by  activity,  by  employment, 
that  you  can  earn  or  deserve  health,  only  by  the 
use  of  your  faculties  that  you  can  preserve  their 
vigor.  We  must  get  you  thoroughly  interested  in 
something,  give  you  something  to  do." 

"  Something  to  do  ?  You  wouldn't  horrify  Mr. 
Willington  by  such  a  suggestion'?  Do  you  sup- 
pose he  would  allow  his  wife  to  work  ? " 


98  A  Plethora  of  Happiness, 

"  Yes,  truly,  if  he  would  have  her  healthful  and 
happy.  Did  you  never  hear  of  a  nobleman  wood- 
sawyer  1  Lord  Elgin  in  his  Canadian  home  used 
to  fell  and  saw  trees  as  industriously  as  though  he 
were  earning  his  bread.  He  ivas  earning  health  and 
strength,  which  are  quite  as  important  as  bread .  Do 
you  remember  a  beautiful  injunction,  concerning 
labor,  from  the  sweet  singer,  Fanny  Osgood?  I 
heard  the  lines  years  ago,  and  they  have  haunted 
me  ever  since ;  they  have  been  to  me  the  song  of 
a  good  angel,  to  scare  away  the  demon  of  idleness  ; 
thus  they  run  — 

"  Work  for  some  good,  be  it  ever  so  slowly, 
Cherish  some  flower,  be  it  ever  so  lowly, 
Labor !  all  labor  is  noble  and  holy ! 
Let  thy  great  deeds  be  thy  prayer  to  thy  God." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  should  offer  up  no  prayer,  if  that 
was  to  be  the  condition,"  said  Angelica,  listlessly. 
"  It  must  be  very  fatiguing  to  have  the  mind  con- 
stantly on  the  stretch,  and  always  to  feel  as  if  there 
was  something  that  must  be  accomplished." 

"  Not  half  so  tiresome  as  to  have  nothing  to  think 
of,  and  nothing  to  do ;  that  is  the  most  wearisome 
work  in  the  world,  and  wins  the  poorest  reward  ; 
an  income  of  ennui.  For  my  part,  I  confess  that  I 
should  be  wretched  if  there  was  nothing  in  which  I 
could  interest  myself;  and  I  am  sure  that  I  should 
not  only  become  (or  fancy  myself)  an  invalid,  but 
probably  I  should  be  a  dreadfully  wicked  person  in 


A  Plethora  of  Happiness,  99 

the  bargain.  I  firmly  believe  in  Satan's  finding 
'some  mischief  still  for  idle  hands  to  do.'" 

"  Ah  !  but  we  have  such  different  temperaments  ! 
You  and  I  are  so  unlike  !  " 

"  Perhaps  so  ;  but  we  are  governed  by  the  same 
unalterable  laws." 

"  /could  not  interest  myself,  as  I  have  heard  that 
you  do,  in  schools  for  '  ragged  children,'  and  in  pro- 
curing employment  for  young  women ;  in  sewing 
societies,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  I  hate  what 
busy  people  call  their  '  duties.'  I  think,  generally 
speaking,  the  most  tedious  people  in  all  the  world 
are  people  who  cant  do  that,  or  must  do  this,  be- 
cause it's  a  '  duty.'  " 

"  And  I  think  that  duty  is  only  another  word  for 
methods  of  earning  happiness.  Duty  is  something 
laid  out  at  interest  to  bring  in  an  income  of  pleas- 
ure. You  need  not  seek  your  duties  in  '  ragged 
schools  '  and  institutions  for  the  employment  of 
young  women,  or  in  '  sewing  societies,'  all  of  which 
seem  so  distasteful  to  you ;  leave  these  for  the  busy 
hands  of  old  maids  —  such  as  I  intend  to  be  if  I 
don't  change  my  mind.  A  wife  and  mother  has 
abundance  of  pleasant  occupation  in  the  circuit  of 
her  own  home,  if  she  will  but  think  so,  and  seek 
for  it  diligently.  But  she  must  not  fold  her  little 
hands  with  a  martyr-like  expression  of  patience,  as 
you  do  now,  and  close  her  bright  eyes  upon  all  that 
is  beautiful  and  joy-imparting  around  her.  If  she 
does,  her  energies  will  stagnate,  —  and  "  — 


100  A  Plethora  of  Happiness. 

"  Ah !  Ruth,  dear,  you  are  so  energetic,  that's 
the  word  !  you  always  were.  But  do  you  know  I 
have  heard  Mr.  Willington  say  that  nothing 
fatigued  and  tormented  him  so  much  as  energetic 
women ;  women  who  were  always  on  the  go,  always 
striving  to  achieve  some  great  end." 

"  Test  his  words  !  Prove  whether  they  are  cor- 
rect, just  for  variety's  sake.  Try  the  experiment 
of  rousing  yourself  up  to  some  energetic  employ- 
ment, and  see  whether  he  will  not  naturally  make 
more  of  a  companion  of  the  wife  whose  energies 
are  all  alive,  than  of  the  pretty  doll  of  whom  he 
must  weary,  and  to  whom  he  thinks  he  has  done 
his  duty  by  surrounding  her  with  luxuries,  and 
cheating  himself  into  the  belief  that  she  is  an 
invalid." . 

"  Oh !  he's  the  best  husband  in  the  world  !  I've 
nothing  to  complain  of;  he  allows  me  to  do  just 
what  I  please.  To  be  sure,  we  don't  see  much  of 
each  other ;  but  I  like  him  to  amuse  himself. 
Heigho  !  do  you  ever  have  the  '  blues  1 '  I  have 
them  every  day." 

"  No,  indeed.  If  I  had,  I  should  sentence  my- 
self to  '  hard  labor,'  as  the  punishment,  and  certain 
cure  of  an  attack.  But,  Angelica,  I  suppose  you 
sometimes  walk  with  Mr.  Willington,  and  read 
with  him,  and  form  plans  for  the  education  of  the 
children,  or  the  entertainment  of  your  guests,  or  " — 

u  No,  I  do  not  think  I  do.  I  can't  read  much  ; 
it  gives  me  the  headache.     And  when  I  walk,  it  is 


A  Plethora  of  Happiness.  101 

in  the  garden,  and  men  don't  care  to  walk  in 
gardens.  You  must  see  our  garden ;  it  really  is 
the  prettiest  that  I  ever  saw." 

"  Perhaps  you  love  to  take  care  of  flowers,"  sug- 
gested Ruth,  brightening. 

"  No,  we  have  a  capital  gardener.  Uncle  Job 
is  very  fond  of  his  flowers.  It's  Arena's  place  to 
gather  them  and  make  bouquets.  You'll  find  them 
in  every  room  in  the  house,  as  a  matter  of  course." 

"  But  I  should  think  you  would  at  least  like  to 
cull  and  arrange  the  flowers  yourself.  That  must 
give  you  pleasure." 

"  Why  should  I  take  the  trouble  when  I  have 
some  one  to  do  it  for  me  ? " 

Ruth,  who  had  preserved  great  serenity  during 
this  conversation,  though  she  was  shocked  and 
grieved  at  her  friend's  deplorable  state  of  mind, 
now  became  fairly  roused.  She  answered  in  a 
tone  so  earnest  and  excited  that  it  startled  Angelica 
out  of  her  lethargy. 

"Why  should  you  take  the  trouble  to  enjoy? 
Truly,  that  you  may  not  lose  the  capacity  for  en- 
joyment which  God  has  given  you  as  a  reward  for 
the  healthful  use  of  your  faculties  !  Why  should 
you  take  the  trouble  to  think,  to  feel,  to  sympa- 
thize ?  Because,  without  thought,  without  feeling, 
without  sympathy,  you  must  become  a  living  clog, 
a  vegetable  nonentity,  a  breathing  petrifaction ! 
Because  the  mental  paralysis  which  is  gradually 
falling  upon  your  spirit,  would  deprive  soul  and 

9* 


102  A  Plethora  of  Happiness. 

body  of  their  noblest  powers  !  Ah,  Angelica !  I 
laughingly  said  to  your  husband  that  I  should  dis- 
cover the  disease  under  which  you  are  laboring, 
and  I  hardly  thought  to  keep  my  word  so  easily. 
Your  ailment  is  a  plethora  of  happiness,  a  surfeit 
of  good  gifts.  You  have  not  paid  your  tribute  of 
gratitude  to  the  lavish  Giver  of  these  blessings,  by 
putting  them  to  use.  You  have  not  made  them 
reach  others  ;  they  have  not  radiated  from  you,  as 
their  centre,  and  fallen  brightly  on  a  wide  circle 
extending  around  you,  and  they  turn  to  curses,  to 
disease,  and  weigh  upon  you  like  a  nightmare. 
Privation  would  teach  you  their  value.  Sorrow 
would  perhaps  restore  the  tone  to  your  mind,  re- 
invigorate  your  body,  and  bring  back  the  conscious- 
ness of  happiness  which,  for  the  time  being,  you 
have  lost." 

Angelica  listened  as  though  the  weary  spell  un- 
der which  she  was  bound  had  suddenly  been 
broken.  She  was  no  longer  reclining  upon  the 
sofa,  but  sitting  up  erect  and  strong.  Her  lips 
quivered  and  her  blue  eyes  dilated,  as  she  gazed 
upon  Ruth's  beaming  countenance,  and  drank  in 
her  words.  When  the  latter  ceased  speaking 
there  was  a  pause  of  a  few  seconds  ;  then  Angelica 
replied,  with  an  emotion  which  animated  her 
whole  frame  and  illumined  her  countenance  with 
a  higher  beauty  than  it  had  ever  yet  known : 

"  Ruth,  I  wish  I  could  feel  as  you  do !  " 


A  Plethora  of  Happiness.  103 

Years  passed  before  Angelica  and  Ruth  met 
again,  for  the  latter  was  only  travelling  through 
Charleston,  and  left  the  next  morning.  But,  what 
small  events  influence  a  life  !  What  casual  words 
sounding  in  the  ears,  and  echoed  over  and  over 
again  in  the  memory,  affect  a  whole  existence  ! 
The  history  of  nations  shows  the  wonderful  agency 
of  trifles  in  working  out  important  ends.  A  basin 
of  water  spilled  on  Mrs.  Masham's  gown,  led  to 
the  removal  of  Marlborough,  and  so  to  the  peace 
of  Utrecht,  which  had  its  influence  upon  all  Eu- 
rope. An  idle  boast  of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham, 
caused  a  terrible  war  between  England  and 
France. 

The  accidental  visit,  the  unpremeditated  admo- 
nition of  Ruth  Merriwether,  changed  the  whole 
current  of  Angelica's  life.  When  she  felt  op- 
pressed by  that  sense  of  weariness  and  dejection 
which  had  long  weighed  upon  her  spirit,  Ruth's 
voice  exclaiming,  "  a  plethora  of  happiness  ! " 
would  ring  mockingly  in  her  ears.  "  A  plethora 
of  happiness,  a  surfeit  of  good  gifts."  Yes,  it  was 
true,  she  acknowledged  it  to  herself;  that  was  her 
disease.  She  had  nothing  to  desire,  and  she  had 
lost  the  very  consciousness,  the  faculty  of  happi- 
ness. When  once  she  commenced  to  reflect,  she 
noticed  that  her  husband  found  no  enjoyment  at 
his  own  home,  that  he  sought  his  pleasures  else- 
where ;  and  she  said  to  herself,  "  A  doll,  not  a 
companion,  he  wearies  of  me ;  Ruth  said  he 
would."     She  observed  that  her  little  ones  clung 


104  A  Plethora  of  Happiness. 

to  their  "  mammies  "  in  preference  to  her,  and 
Buth's  words  would  sound  in  her  ears  again. 

Those  words  had  been  a  new  revelation  to  An- 
gelica ;  they  had  placed  in  her  hands  the  golden 
key  which  unlocked  the  secret  of  her  lassitude, 
and  languor,  and  depression. 

For  some  time  after  she  became  cognizant  of  her 
own  state,  the  evil  seemed  aggravated  by  being 
comprehended ;  but  the  dangerous  illness  of  her 
little  son  wakened  the  mother  in  her  heart,  and 
gave  her  a  motive  for  exertion.  She  hung  over 
his  bed  day  after  day,  and  forgot  her  ennui,  her  ail- 
ments, her  low  spirits,  in  ministering  to  the  little 
sufferer.  Then  followed  a  thrill  of  joy,  amounting 
to  ecstasy,  when  the  sweet  invalid's  first  signs  of 
returning  health  gladdened  her  maternal  eyes. 

"  Ruth  was  right,  again.  Sorrow  was  good  for 
me.  I  was  suffering  from  a  plethora  of  happiness," 
she  inwardly  exclaimed. 

That  conviction  and  that  confession  were  the 
heralds  of  a  happy  change.  It  was  not  effected  in 
an  hour  or  in  a  day  ;  it  was  hardly  perceptible  at 
first,  but  was  gradually  felt  throughout  the  house- 
hold, by  children,  servants,  friends,  dependants, — 
most  of  all,  by  Angelica's  husband. 

Ah !  no  one  divined  how  simple  was  the  magic 
that  wrought  this  wonderful  metamorphosis  !  A 
few  passing  words  of  truth,  dropped  from  the 
kindly  lips  of  a  friend,  and  the  discovery  of  an  ail- 
ment which  proved  to  be  only  "  a  plethora  of  hap- 
piness." 


ANGEL  CHILDREN. 


O  whom  is  the  hour  of  twilight  so  sweet 
as  to  children'?  Too  tired  to  play,  and 
yet  unreconciled  to  the  nightly  trial  of 
heing  put  to  bed,  children,  half  the  world  over, 
have  simultaneously  raised  their  tender  voices,  and 
consecrated  this  hour  to  story-listening. 

At  twilight,  five  sisters  were  cosily  gathered 
around  the  dear  paternal  hearth.  "  Sisser,  tell  me 
a  tory  ! "  said  little  Virginia,  climbing  on  my  knee 
and  circling  my  waist  with  her  tiny  arms  until  the 
dimpled  hands  met,  and  then  nestling  her  curly 
head  upon  my  shoulder,  "  Tell  me  a  pretty  tory ! " 

There  is  no  refusing  our  petted  Jenny. 

"  What  must  the  story  be  about,  Jenny  ?  " 

"Oh,  about  fairies  and  dood  children." 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  about  three  little  sisters  whom 
I  knew,  who  are  all  angels  now,  and  shall  I  tell 
you  of  a  heavenly  dream  I  once  had  about  them  ? " 

"  Yes,  about  angels ;  angels  will  do  as  well  as 
fairies." 

"  Well,  then,  listen.  One  Christmas  morning  I 
was  sitting  in  church  amongst  a  number  of  cher- 

(105) 


106  Angel  Children. 

ished  friends  ;  the  church  was  gayly  decorated  with 
evergreens ;  the  Star  of  Bethlehem  shone  on  the 
eastern  wall ;  the  Sunday  School  children  had 
sung  an  exquisite  hymn,  written  for  the  occasion ; 
our  beloved  pastor,  in  his  holiest  mood,  had  spoken 
words  of  promise  and  encouragement ;  had  breathed 
upon  us  '  soft  rebukes  in  blessings  ended  ; '  around 
him  were  hopefully  happy  faces,  but  amongst  the 
cheerful  crowd  I  missed  one  dear,  familiar  coun- 
tenance. A  father  sat  surrounded  by  his  children, 
but  their  mother  was  absent.  She  was  at  home 
watching  over  a  little  daughter  who  was  very  ill. 
The  family  lived  a  short  distance  from  the  city, 
and  after  service  I  drove  out  to  see  the  sick  child. 
Among  my  Christmas  presents  was  a  basket  made 
of  moss  and  filled  with  green-house  flowers, — 
camelias,  heliotropes,  orange  blossoms,  jasmines, 
roses,  etc.  The  handle,  too,  was  woven  of  flowers, 
embedded  in  moss.  I  thought  the  refreshing  sight 
of  the  flowers  might  do  little  Clara  good,  so  I 
stopped  on  the  way  for  this  lovely  floral  gift.  At 
the  door  of  Clara's  home  I  was  greeted  by  a  host 
of  little  ones,  and  first  they  took  me  into  the  par- 
lor, where  stood  a  Christmas  tree,  so  tall  that  it 
nearly  reached  from  the  floor  to  the  ceiling.  The 
spreading  branches  were  loaded  with  gifts,  and 
waxen  lights  were  scattered  about  amongst  the 
smaller  boughs.  The  children  delightedly  exhib- 
ited their  abundant  Christmas  presents,  and  they 
led  me  up  stairs  to  their  mother's  room.     As  they 


Angel  Children.  107 

entered  there,  every  one  trod  softly,  and  the  gay 
voices  were  hushed  to  whispers.  On  a  small 
couch,  at  the  foot  of  her  mother's  bed,  lay  little 
Clara,  a  patient,  gentle  child,  about  seven  or  eight 
years  old.  She  was  lying  so  motionless  that  you 
might  have  thought  her  some  beautiful  statue  ;  her 
thin,  tiny  hands  were  as  white  as  the  sheet  on 
which  they  were  extended ;  her  countenance  had 
an  alabaster  hue,  and  her  large  dark  eyes  were 
looking  fixedly  upwards  towards  the  ceiling,  as 
though  they  could  see  more  than  we  saw.  The 
mother  sat  near  the  bed,  her  face  blanched  with 
apprehension,  and  around  her  eyes  were  red  cir- 
cles that  showed  she  had  been  weeping,  perhaps 
the  whole  of  that  Christmas  night.  Little  Clara 
did  not  notice  us  when  we  entered,  nor  did  she 
answer  when  I  spoke  to  her,  but  when  I  brought 
the  mossy  basket  to  the  bedside,  she  feebly  lifted 
up  her  shadowy  hand  and  laid  it  on  the  flower- 
woven  handle,  and  looked  in  my  face  and  smiled 
one  angelic  smile  of  thanks. 

"  The  next  morning  the  Christmas  tree  still 
stood  in  the  parlor,  but  in  the  chamber  above  lay 
a  little  coffin ;  within  reposed  the  earthly  form  of 
a  lovely  child,  bestrewed  with  flowers,  but  the  an- 
gels had  borne  away  little  Clara  to  her  eternal 
home. 

"  Lizzy  was  the  name  of  one  of  Clara's  younger 
sisters.  She  was  called  after  a  most  beloved  friend 
of  her  parents.     Lily  was  the  pet  name  by  which 


108  Angel  Children. 

she  always  went.  Lily  was  her  father's  especial 
darling,  the  sunlight  of  his  home  and  his  heart. 
The  moment  he  entered  the  house,  she  flew  into 
his  arms ;  wherever  he  went,  she  was  at  his  side, 
her  baby  hand. seldom  out  of  his;  if  he  wrere  sad, 
she  comprehended  it  in  a  moment,  and  would 
charm  away  his  gloom  with  her  merry  prattle,  her 
arch,  infantile  graces ;  if  he  were  gay,  she  was 
full  of  wildest  sport.  When  he  was  out  of  the 
house,  Lily  seemed  a  different  being ;  all  was  sel- 
dom well  with  her  until  he  returned ;  at  night  she 
slept  in  his  arms,  and  in  the  morning,  though  the 
world  called  him  a  grave,  wise  man,  they  frolicked 
together  like  children.  If  such  a  thing  could  be, 
Lily  was  almost  too  dear  to  her  father,  and  he  to 
her.  Not  long  after  Clara  was  summoned  away, 
little  Lily  fell  sick.  Father  and  mother  watched 
her  night  and  day  with  breaking  hearts ;  but  her 
Heavenly  Father  had  called  her  ;  he  sent  his  mes- 
senger to  gather  this  fair  flower  also,  and,  as  she 
lay  on  the  bosom  of  her  earthly  father,  the  beau- 
teous blossom  was  plucked. 

"  The  youngest  child  of  all,  the  baby,  the  sweet- 
est, brightest  little  creature,  was  called  Anna.  She, 
too,  was  named  after  a  dear  friend.  Before  Christ- 
mas came  again,  little  Anna  sickened,  as  did  her 
sisters.  How  her  mother  clasped  her  to  her  yearn- 
ing breast,  and  prayed  the  Lord  to  spare  this  one, 
her  baby,  her  latest  born,  whose  joyous  presence 
had  enabled  her  to  bear   the   parting  from  her 


Angel  Children.  109 

other  little  ones  !  The  Lord  knew  best  what  was 
good  for  little  Anna ;  his  heavens  needed  this 
bright  infant  also,  and  he  called  her  to  be  one  of 
his  angels ! 

"  I  had  taken  a  far-off  journey  after  the  Christmas 
morning  when  I  saw  Clara,  and  the  next  time  I 
beheld  my  dear  friends,  the  traces  of  great  suffer- 
ing, the  agonies  of  that  treble  grief,  were  visible 
in  their  countenances.     The  mother's  face,  in  par- 
ticular, was  full  of  deep  and  settled  sorrow.     She 
talked  much  of  her  darlings.     She  took  me  to  the 
room  where   I  had  last  seen  little  Clara  on  that 
Christmas   morning,  to   the  nursery  where  I  had 
played  with  Lily  and  Anna,  and  showed  me  three 
white  brackets  on  the  walls,  supported  by  cherub 
heads.     One  stood  in  the  mother's  room,  and  held 
the  toys  of  little  Clara,  —  those  she  had  loved  best, 
had  played  with  last ;  the  other  stood  in  the  father's 
study,  and  held  the  silver  cup  of  little  Lily,  her 
toys,  and  the  objects  she   had  last  touched ;  the 
third  stood  in  the  nursery,  and  held  Anna's  silver 
cup  and  baby  remembrances.     Each  bracket  had 
been  decked  by  the  fond  mother  with  a  wreath  of 
white  flowers.     As  she  took  up  the  toys,  one  by 
one,  and  told  me  little  anecdotes  concerning  them, 
the  tears  rained  down  her  cheeks  and  choked  her 
utterance.      The    remaining    children   looked   up 
daily  to  these  toy-covered  brackets,  and  felt  that 
some   portion  of   the   room  was   still  devoted  to 
their  departed  little  sisters.     Among  these  sacred 
10 


110  Angel  Children. 

treasures  were  three  daguerreotypes.  One  repre- 
sented Clara,  lying  upon  the  bed  where  I  last  saw 
her,  with  flowers  scattered  over  her  pillow ;  it  was 
taken  after  her  spirit  had  fled.  Lily's  daguerreo- 
type showed  a  handsome,  arch-looking  little  girl, 
with  a  tiny  basket  in  her  hand,  and  a  pair  of  fine 
dark  eyes  fixed  on  something  very  earnestly  and 
lovingly ;  I  should  say  it  must  have  been  her 
father's  face.  Baby  Anna's  eyes  were  closed  ;  she 
lay  amongst  flowers,  with  a  few  buds  clasped  in 
her  round,  chubby  hands.  She  seemed  in  a  blessed 
sleep,  but  when  that  picture  was  taken,  little  Anna 
had  awakened  in  '  a  brighter  morn  than  ours  ! ' 

"  I  thought  very  often  of  those  three  little  sis- 
ters, all  summoned  away  between  Christmas  and 
Christmas,  and  one  day  I  had  a  dream  in  which  I 
saw  them  all ;  and  this  was  the  dream  :  — 

A   DKEAM   OF   HEAVEN. 

"  I  saw  a  garden  so  luxuriant  with  flowers  and 
foliage,  that  it  seemed  as  though 

'  The  very  rainbow  showers 
Had  turned  to  blossoms  where  they  fell, 
And  sown  the  ground  with  flowers  V 

"  Branches,  covered  with  bloom,  leaned  towards 
each  other,  and  twined  themselves  together  in 
natural  bouquets.  From  the  trees  hung  crimson 
and   purple  and   amber-colored  fruit,   pomegran- 


Angel  Children.  Ill 

ates,  figs,  plums,  and  many  others,  such  as  I  had 
never  seen,  and  their  names  I  did  not  know. 
These  bright-hued  fruits  appeared  transparent,  and 
through  the  clear  juice  sparkled  the  polished  seeds 
and  stones,  like  precious  gems. 

"  In  the  centre  of  the  garden  rose  two  trees  with 
widely  spreading  branches,  covered  with  snow- 
white  blossoms.  Grape  vines  clambered  up  the 
trunks  of  each  tree  and  wound  themselves  in 
graceful  festoons  through  the  boughs.  The  soft 
air  wafted  the  floating  tendrils  of  one  vine  to  the 
topmost  branches  of  the  opposite  tree,  until  they 
formed  a  leafy  bower.  From  its  arch  hung  clus- 
ters of  golden  grapes,  glistening  through  wreaths 
of  pearl-like  bloom.  Within  the  bower  I  saw  a 
mossy  mound.  Violets,  anemones,  lilies  of  the 
valley,  and  the  blue  eyes  of  the  '  forget-me-not ' 
peeped  through  the  velvet  covering,  making  a 
richly  variegated  and  living  broidery.  The  mound 
appeared  in  the  shape  of  a  seat,  half  rustic  and 
half  regal. 

"  The  flowers  in  this  garden  exhaled  an  aroma  so 
penetratingly  delicious,  that  they  seemed  to  be 
sending  up  perpetual  thanksgivings  for  their 
bright  existence,  while  diamond  dew-drops  glit- 
tered like  costly  gifts  on  their  expanding  bosoms. 
The  atmosphere  was  singularly  pure,  exhilarating, 
life-stirring.  The  sky  shone  resplendent  with  the 
softest,  most  roseate  hues  of  early  morning. 

"  A  group  of  angelic  children  gambolled  through 


112  Angel  Children. 

the  garden.  Some  had  chaplets  on  their  heads, 
and  some  had  garlands  twined  about  their  bosoms, 
or  girdles  of  tiny  leaves  mingled  with  violets  and 
rose-buds,  wound  around  their  waists ;  and  some 
had  woven  bracelets  of  flowers  and  bound  them  on 
their  arms,  and  then  fastened  the  flowery  manacle 
to  the  arm  of  an  infantile  companion ;  these  pairs 
were  always  seen  together,  they  seemed  as  one, 
each  as  half  of  the  other,  and  only  when  united 
forming  a  complete  whole.  The  children  were 
sporting  with  a  white  lamb,  decking  his  pure 
throat  with  leafy  chains,  embracing  and  kissing 
him. 

"  Near  the  joyous  crowd  stood  an  angel,  clad  in 
vesture  that  had  the  whitely  varying  hues  of  an 
opal ;  the  hem  was  wrought  with  stars  of  gold,  the 
zone  was  clasped  beneath  her  breast  with  a  single, 
ruby,  heart-shaped.  A  fillet  of  pearls  encircled  her 
head,  one  large  ruby  shone  in  the  centre,  and  emitted 
such  a  stream  of  roseate  rays,  that  they  formed  a 
halo  above  her  brow.  From  beneath  the  pearly 
band  her  hair  flowed  loosely  to  her  knees,  not  in 
ringlets,  but  in  shining  waves  that  looked  like  a 
veil  of  woven  amber.  The  perfect  beauty,  the 
mild  effulgence  of  her  countenance  no  language 
could  describe.  It  was  turned  towards  the  children, 
and  1  noticed  that  when  she  smiled  upon  them, 
her  face  grew  so  radiant  that  a  beam  of  light 
seemed  to  strike  on  their  heads  and  illumine  their 
hair.     She  watched  them  in  their  sports  ;  they  were 


Angel  Children.  113 

gathering  flowers,  and,  strange  to  say,  when  they 
plucked  the  blossoms  from  the  stems,  other  blos- 
soms instantly  appeared  in  their  places,  no  stem 
was  ever  left  bare.  As  the  children  sprang  over 
the  mead,  the  flowers  only  bowed  their  heads,  and 
rose  up  brighter,  and  fresher,  and  sent  out  a  more 
exquisite  perfume  at  their  infant  touches. 

"  And  now  the  angel-girl,  with  a  gliding  step, 
drew  near  the  bower  and  seated  herself  on  the 
mossy  throne.  She  lifted  her  beautiful  arm  and 
took  from  the  branch  of  the  tree  on  her  right 
hand  a  harp,  cut  out  of  a  single  pearl,  with  strings 
of  silver  and  gold.  The  light  touch  of  her  fingers 
drew  forth  such  an  ecstatic  sound  that  it  thrilled 
through  the  band  of  sporting  children ;  with  one 
accord  they  turned  their  faces  towards  her,  flew  to 
the  bower,  and  gathered  themselves  closely  about 
her  knees.  The  white  lamb  followed  them  and  laid 
down  softly  at  the  angel-girl's  feet.  As  her  fingers 
ran  through  the  silvery  strings,  she  sang  the  hymn 
of  the  angels,  when  the  Saviour  was  born,  when 
the  star  shone  in  the  East,  and  the  shepherds 
watched  their  flocks  by  night,  '  Glory  to  God  in 
the  highest,  and  on  earth  peace,  good  will  towards 
men ! '  Her  voice  was  so  softly,  liquidly  melo- 
dious that  it  seemed  but  the  speaking  tone  of  the 
golden  and  silver  strings.  As  she  sang,  birds, 
with  gorgeous  plumage,  lit  upon  the  trees  that 
formed  her  bower,   and  when    she  paused,    they 

warbled  a  chorus.     When  she  resumed  her  hymn 
10* 


114  Angel  Children. 

of  praise,  they  joyfully  fluttered  their  brilliant 
wings,  and  it  seemed  as  though  a  sparkling  shower 
of  gems  was  rained  into  the  balmy  air.  Then  the 
angel  laid  down  her  harp  and  the  children  caressed 
her,  and  resumed  their  sports  with  greater  gladness 
than  ever.  She  sat  still  in  her  bower,  but  watched 
them  with  loving  eyes.  Very  soon  they  returned 
to  her,  as  though  they  were  weary  of  feeling  her 
so  distant  from  them.  Then  she  spoke  to  them 
tenderly,  but  it  was  in  angelic  language,  which  has 
a  softer,  more  flowing  sound  than  any  human 
tongue.  She  told  them  of  the  Saviour  upon  earth, 
the  earth  from  which  they  came,  and  that  he  was 
once  a  little  child  on  that  earth  himself,  and  that 
he  had  taken  little  children  in  his  arms  and 
blessed  them,  and  said  to  his  disciples,  '  Suffer 
little  children  to  come  unto  me,  and  forbid  them 
not,  for  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven.'  As 
she  spoke,  the  children  looked  up  and  saw  a  rain- 
bow arching  itself  over  the  garden,  and  their  hearts 
were  filled  with  delight ;  they  appeared  to  under- 
stand something  as  they  gazed  on  that  heavenly 
bow,  that  I  cannot  explain. 

"  Suddenly  the  angel  paused  and  said  '  Hark  ! ' 
then  turned  her  face  towards  one  side  of  the  gar- 
den, where  I  beheld  a  golden  gate.  Beside  the 
gate  stood  an  angel  of  wondrous  loveliness,  she 
seemed  to  be  watching.  And  now  she  opened  the 
gate,  and,  as  it  flew  back,  it  gave  forth  a  sound  of 
joy  and  triumph.     Beyond   the  gate  there  was  a 


Angel  Children.  115 

dense  mist,  and  in  the  distance,  through  the  dark 
way,  appeared  a  third  angel,  leading  a  child,  a 
timid,  bewildered  little  girl.  As  they  passed  the 
gate,  the  flowers  all  flashed  with  new  brightness 
and  breathed  out  a  sweeter  fragrance,  the  garden  was 
flooded  with  a  more  golden  light,  the  trees  seemed 
to  bend  their  boughs,  hung  with  jewel-like  fruit, 
as  though  they  invited  the  new  guest  to  pluck  them, 
the  bright-plumaged  birds  sent  forth  one  long  note 
of  glad  greeting,  and  the  face  of  the  angel-girl  in 
the  bower  shone  like  the  morning  star. 

"  The  angel  that  led  the  little  child  was  very 
beautiful ;  but  in  her  countenance  there  was  a  se- 
rious sweetness,  as  though  she  had  gazed  on  the 
sorrow  of  others  until  it  had  cast  a  shadow  on  her 
angelic  beatitude. 

1  Her  dress  seemed  -wove  of  lily  leaves, 
It  was  so  pure  and  fine,'  — 

and  all  about  her  there  was  a  strange  whiteness. 
She  was  the  Angel  of  Death.  As  she  drew  near, 
I  recognized  the  little  girl,  it  was  Clara !  My  little 
friend  Clara,  whom  I  had  seen  lying  on  her  couch, 
so  wan  and  ill,  that  Christmas  morning !  Clara,  as 
she  entered  the  garden,  looked  around  joyfully,  and 
her  step  grew  quicker  and  lighter.  The  Angel  of 
Death  led  her  to  the  sister  angel,  sitting  in  the 
bower.  She  folded  her  arms  around  Clara  and 
pressed  her  to  her  bosom  with  a  loving  welcome, 


116  Angel  Children. 

and  Clara  felt  as  though  she  knew  her,  and  her 
kiss  seemed  just  like  the  fond  kiss  of  her  own 
mother.     Then  Clara  turned  to  the  group  of  happy 
children,  who  received  her  as  a  companion.     They 
embraced  her  in  turn,   and  it  seemed  to  her  as 
though  she  had  long  known  and  loved  them  all. 
Then  the  little  lamb  leaped  up  against  her,  and 
she  caressed  it  and  stroked  its  snowy  wool.     Soon 
the  children  led  her  away  to  show  her  their  gar- 
den.    I  could  not   hear  what  they  said,  but  the 
sound  of  their  joyous  laughter  came  to  me,  and  I 
knew  Clara's  voice  above  the   others,  she   never 
laughed  so  happily  upon  the  earth.     I  saw  her  new 
companions  take  her  to  a  lovely  lake.     Upon  its 
crystal  waters   grew  lilies   even  larger   than   the 
Victoria  Regia,  of  which  you  have  heard  that  upon 
'its  leaf  a  child  can  stand  securely.     As  the  chil- 
dren came  to  the  edge  of  the  lake,  the  lilies  floated 
towards  them  and  touched  the  shore.     Then  some 
of  the   little  ones  put  out  their  tiny,  white  feet 
into  the  lily-cups,  all  among  the  quivering  yellow 
stamens,  and  sat  down  in  the  snowy  bowls,  and  the 
inner  leaves  seemed  to  fold  around  them  to  hold 
them  safely,  and  the  outer  leaves  spread  themselves 
like  sails  ;  and  so  they  floated  about  the  lake,  clap- 
ping their  hands  with  gleeful  shouts. 

"  I  cannot  tell  how  long  a  time  passed,  for  in 
that  world  there  is  no  time  that  is  counted  as  with 
us,  but  it  seemed  only  a  short  period,  when  the 
angel-girl  gathered  the  children  around  her  again 


Angel  Children.  117 

and  said,  '  Hark !  another  young  child  is  coming 
from  the  earth  ! '  And  the  angel  at  the  gate  threw 
open  the  golden  portals,  and  again  they  gave  forth 
the  melodious  sound,  and  in  the  distance  was  seen 
the  Angel  of  Death,  leading  a  little  girl  through 
the  dark  way,  and,  as  they  entered  the  gate,  again 
the  flowers  flashed  with  new  brightness  and  sent 
forth  their  sweetest  odors,  and  the  light  grew  more 
golden,  and  the  rainbow-hued  birds  flew  about 
with  songs  of  joy,  and  the  trees  bent  their  boughs 
laden  with  luscious  fruit.  The  gate  closed,  and  I 
could  see  that  the  little  girl  bore  something  in  her 
hand  ;  it  was  a  lily-branch.  As  she  drew  near  the 
bower,  little  Clara  suddenly  bounded  forward  and 
caught  her  in  her  arms,  crying  out, '  It  is  Lily !  my 
little  sister  Lily  ! '  Lily  clasped  her  arms  tightly 
about  Clara,  and  no  longer  looked  frightened,  and 
Clara  took  her  to  the  angel  and  to  her  own  young 
companions,  and  they  all  welcomed  her  with  de- 
light. 

"  The  time  was  very  short  when  there  came  again 
the  musical  sound  of  the  opening  of  the  golden  gate  ; 
the  flowers,  the  birds,  the  air,  the  trees,  all  gave 
their  greeting.  The  Angel  of  Death  passed  through 
the  dark  valley  into  the  heavenly  garden,  carrying 
an  infant  very  carefully  and  tenderly  on  her  bosom. 
She  drew  near  Clara  and  laid  the  infant  in  her 
arms.  The  baby  opened  her  eyes  as  though  from 
a  sweet  sleep,  and  knew  Clara,  and  laughed  out 
right  merrily  ;  and  she  saw  Lily  and  stretched  out 


118  Angel  Children, 

her  little  arms  to  twine  them  round  her  neck,  and 
Clara  and  Lily  rejoiced  over  the  coming  of  baby 
Anna.  Indeed  there  was  more  joy  amongst  all  the 
children  at  her  arrival  than  they  had  felt  before, 
for  she  had  passed  through  that  golden  gate  so 
young  she  had  fewer  earthly  stains  about  her. 

"  c  Let  us  crown  her  with  flowers  ! '  said  one. 
fc  Let  her  play  with  our  white  lamb  !  '  said  another. 
'Let  us  take  her  to  sail  in  the  lily-boats !  '  cried 
another.  '  Let  us  ask  our  dear  guardian  to  sing 
to  her ! '  Little  Anna  was  tenderly  laid  on  the  lap 
of  the  guardian  angel,  and  the  hearts  of  the  three 
sisters  overflowed  with  perfect  joy. 

"  That  angel  was  once  on  this  earth,  a  heavenly, 
minded  girl.  She  had  loved  young  children  very 
dearly,  and,  when  she  died,  her  occupation  in 
heaven  was  to  instruct  and  watch  over  the  children 
and  infants  who  came  from  earth  to  that  paradisia- 
cal garden.  If  the  mother,  who  mourned  so  deeply 
over  her  three  lost  treasures,  could  but  have  seen 
them  there y  would  she  not  have  exclaimed  — 


Content, 


Our  love  was  well  divided ; 
Its  sweetness  following  where  they  went, 
Its  anguish  stayed  where  I  did. 


Well  done  of  God  to  halve  the  lot, 
And  give  them  all  the  sweetness ; 

To  us  the  empty  room  and  cot  — 
To  them  the  heaven's  completeness. 


Angel  Children.  119 

'  To  us  these  graves  —  to  them  the  rows 

The  mystic  palm  trees  spring  in ; 
To  us  the  silence  in  the  house, 
To  them  the  choral  singing ! ' 

"  And  how  does  Jenny  like  the  story  %  "  I  asked. 

Jenny  looked  up  with  thoughtful  eyes.  "  But 
do  you  believe  that  little  Clara  and  Lily  and  Anna 
went  to  a  garden  like  that,  when  they  died,  and 
were  taught  by  an  angel,  and  were  so  very  happy  ? " 

"  I  do  believe  so  !  " 


THE  ANTICIPATIONS  AND  REALITIES 

OF 

A   CHILDREN'S  PARTY. 


RS.  SYLVESTER  had  a  passion  for  chil- 
dren. She  entertained  certain  strange 
sentiments  concerning  them,  at  which  her 
friends  marvelled  and  smiled  aside.  She  cherished 
favorite  theories  concerning  the  holy  atmosphere 
that  surrounds  childhood,  the  guardian  angels  that 
follow  in  children's  steps,  and  fold  invisible  arms 
around  their  tiny  forms  to  shield  them  from  dan- 
ger, the  unseen  hands  that  guide  them,  the  un- 
earthly voices  that  teach.  The  music  of  a  child's 
jubilant  laugh,  though  it  sounded  in  the  distant 
streets,  and  she  knew  not  from  what  voice  it  rang, 
found  an  involuntary  echo  in  her  heart  and  upon 
her  lips.  The  soft  touch  of  a  child's  clinging  fin- 
gers sent  a  thrill  of  pleasure  through  her  frame. 
Not  the  stars  in  their  blue  canopy,  nor  the  flowers 
on  their  emerald  beds,  nor  the  glitter  of  precious 
stones,  nor  the  noblest  triumphs  of  the  chisel  or 
the  brush,  were  half  so  beautiful  in  her  sight  as 
childhood's  innocent  eyes,  glowing  cheeks,  dewy 

(120) 


The  Anticipations  and  Realities  of        121 

lips,  and  furrowless  brow,  upon  which  she  saw 
God's  superscription  of  purity  legibly  written.  In 
short,  Mrs.  Sylvester  was  what  the  world  called 
romantic  A  rather  vague  term,  which  means,  in 
this  instance,  that  she  was  inclined  to  look  upon 
all  creation  in  its  poetical  aspect ;  to  throw  an 
ideal  halo  around  the  common-place,  and  was  so 
pertinaciously  resolved  to  behold  only  the  beauti- 
ful, that  she  too  often  ignored  its  desirable  alliance 
with  the  practical  and  useful. 

Mrs.  Sylvester  was  not  very  kindly  affected  to- 
wards those  mothers  who  unhesitatingly  avowed 
that  their  maternal  duties  pressed  heavily  upon 
them,  that  their  cares  outweighed  their  joys,  that 
their  children  in  infancy  trod  on  their  feet,  and  in 
youth  trampled  over  their  hearts  ;  in  fact,  that  they 
themselves  strongly  resembled  that  old  woman  in 
the  shoe,  commemorated  in  the  classics  of  the 
nursery,  who  had  so  many  little  ones  she  never 
knew  what  to  do.  Mrs.  Sylvester  was  uncharitable 
enough  to  assert  that  such  mothers  could  not  be 
good  Christians,  although  they  knelt  devoutly  at 
the  communion-table,  and  were  shining  lights  in 
the  high  places  of  the  church.  But  be  it  remem- 
bered, Mrs.  Sylvester  had  no  children  of  her  own, 
and  her  inexperience  made  her  all  the  more  repre- 
hensible in  judging  her  child-ridden  neighbors. 

Mrs.    Sylvester,    however,   had    young    sisters. 

Her  Virginia  home  was  distant  from  the  paternal 

mansion,  and  great  was  her  pride  and  joy  when 
11 


122  A  Children  s  Party. 

those  fondly-beloved,  juvenile  sisters  paid  her  their 
first  visit.  She  was  in  high  glee  at  the  obvious 
propriety  of  giving  a  children's  party.  Accord- 
ingly invitations  were  sent  out  in  the  most  thought- 
lessly liberal  manner.  Mrs.  Sylvester's  circle  of 
acquaintance  chanced  to  be  very  extensive,  and 
the  "  little  folks  "  of  many  households  were  bid- 
den without  any  reference  to  age  or  number. 

But  though  Mrs.  Sylvester's  social  circle  was 
large,  and  her  intentions  vaguely  grand,  her  house 
was  small,  very  small,  a  mere  cottage,  and  where 
she  purposed  to  locate  the  children  within  doors, 
she  had  no  very  definite  idea.  On  one  side  of  the 
cottage  there  was  a  spacious  dell-shaped  garden, 
Mrs.  Sylvester's  especial  delight,  and  here  the  chil- 
dren might  ramble  about,  and  play  games  and 
make  merry,  and  partake  of  refreshments  until 
evening  drew  nigh. 

Mrs.  Sylvester  had  literally  ordered  the  house 
to  be  "  turned  out  of  doors,"  to  make  room  for  the 
youthful  assemblage,  and  the  apartments  had  been 
ruthlessly  dismantled  of  furniture.  In  the  large 
dining-room,  (the  only  room  by  which  the  term 
"  large "  could,  by  a  stretch  of  courtesy,  be  ap- 
plied,) a  magic  lantern  was  to  be  exhibited.  Mrs. 
Sylvester  had  procured  this  lantern  from  Paris  for 
the  express  amusement  of  her  young  friends,  but 
the  lens  being  very  powerful  and  designed  for  a 
long  hall,  it  played  as  appropriate  a  part  in  Mrs. 
Sylvester's  dining-room,  as  the  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field's family  painting  in  his  parsonage. 


A  Children  s  Party.  123 

It  was  early  in  May.  The  day  for  the  much- 
talked-of  party  came.  The  weather  was  magnifi- 
cent. The  cool,  vernal  air  was  laden  with  the  per- 
fume of  opening  blossoms,  and  the  rays  of  the  sun 
were  tempered  by  flying  clouds. 

When  Mrs.  Sylvester  had  finished  her  prepara- 
tions, had  plundered  her  own  garden  and  the  gar- 
dens of  her  neighbors,  to  convert  the  cottage  into 
a  bower  of  roses ;  had  seen  that  the  magic  lantern 
was  trimmed  and  the  glasses  in  order,  and  had 
profusely  decked  the  supper-table,  she  sat  down 
and  revelled  in  thought  over  the  pleasure  in  store 
for  her.  How  lovely  the  children  would  look ! 
With  what  gladsome  feet  they  would  bound  over 
the  green  turf  and  gravel  walks  !  How  pleasant 
it  would  be  to  hear  their  merry  peals  of  laughter, 
to  watch  their  harmless  gayety,  and  to  feel  that 
they  owed  their  innocent  enjoyment  to  her ! 
Surely  those  bright  human  flowers,  in  their  rose- 
colored,  and  violet,  and  lily-white  raiment,  would 
adorn  the  garden  with  a  living  loveliness  surpass- 
ing all  the  floral  beauty  it  had  known  before. 

Five  o'clock  arrived.  That  was  the  hour  at 
which  the  tiny  guests  were  bidden.  The  young 
sisters  were  dressed  and  ready,  and  Mrs.  Sylvester, 
as  she  stood  with  one  fair-featured  little  maiden  on 
either  side  of  her,  indulged  in  some  gratified  re- 
flections relative  to  their  unsurpassable  sweetness 
and  beauty,  which  it  would  not  have  been  good 
taste  to  communicate  to  the  mothers  of  the  ex- 
pected visitors. 


124  The  Anticipations  and  Realities  of 

The  hour  had  scarcely  sounded  when  the  first 
carriage  drew  up,  and  the  open  windows  revealed 
closely  packed,  delighted  faces  within.  Mrs.  Syl- 
vester received  the  children  at  the  gate,  introduced 
them  to  her  sisters,  and,  under  the  escort  of  the 
latter,  dispatched  them  to  the  garden.  They  had 
taken  but  a  few  steps  when  another  and  another 
carriage  deposited  its  goodly  load,  and  the  little 
sisters  had  to  be  recalled,  and  the  ceremony  of  in- 
troduction repeated.  Again  dismissed,  they  were 
not  half  way  to  the  bower  in  the  centre  of  the  gar- 
den, before  they  were  summoned  back  ;  and  this 
happened  again  and  again,  until  the  children  be- 
gan to  pour  in  with  such  torrent-like  rapidity  that 
presentation  was  perforce  abandoned. 

Mrs.  Sylvester  was  in  raptures  as  she  contem- 
plated the  groups  of  beaming  faces  around  her. 
The  brows  of  some  were  encircled  with  chaplets 
of  natural  flowers,  and  the  bright  ringlets  beneath 
were  lustrous  with  the  smoothing  of  a  fond  moth- 
er's hand.  Some  children  wore  garlands  fastened 
from  their  shoulders,  which  gave  a  most  pictu- 
resque effect  to  white  attire ;  the  waists  of  others 
were  girdled  with  fresh  ivy,  and  their  dresses 
looped  with  opening  buds ;  others  carried  bou- 
quets in  their  hands  and  on  their  bosoms.  All 
eyes  were  feasted  upon  flowers,  and  every  breath 
of  air  was  redolent  with  delicious  odors.  The  little 
girls  were  graceful  in  the  extreme,  with  that  sweet 
demeanor,  blushingly  modest  yet  not  awkwardly 


A  Children  s  Party.  125 

shy,  half  timid,  half  composed,  and  altogether  cap- 
tivating, so  peculiar  to  Virginia  maidens.  And 
there  was  a  dove-like  softness  in  their  clear  eyes, 
and  the  stamp  of  refinement  upon  their  beauty, 
which  greatly  heightened  its  charm. 

A  little  later  the  boys  arrived,  of  course  not  in 
carriages,  like  their  dainty,  satin-slippered  sisters. 
They  came  as  though  in  deputations,  ten  or  twelve 
together,  to  keep  each  other  in  countenance. 
There  was  the  decided  look  of  "  Young  America 
Fear  Nothing  "  in  the  faces  of  these  embryo  states- 
men and  rulers  of  the  land,  an  air  which  conveyed 
the  impression  that  they  felt  an  invisible  flag  of 
freedom  eternally  waving  over  their  heads.  Their 
physiques  were  wonderfully  fine,  and  their  manners 
characterized  by  that  bold  self-reliance  and  laugh- 
ing scorn  of  the  dominion  of  womanhood,  which 
ripens,  in  maturer  years,  into  bravery,  tenderness, 
and  chivalric  protection. 

Mrs.  Sylvester  felt  somewhat  less  at  ease  when 
these  incipient  politicians  and  lawgivers,  of  various 
sizes  and  ages,  hurried  past  her  with  a  slight  bow, 
or  an  unconcerned  shake  of  the  hand,  and  congre- 
gated together  on  one  of  the  verdurous  slopes  of 
the  garden,  apart  from  the  girls  yet  overlooking 
them,  and  Mrs.  Sylvester  nervously  fancied,  with 
eyes  that  meditated  mischief.  But  to  this  startling, 
intrusive  idea  she  would  not  give  a  moment's  en- 
tertainment. 

The  rush  of  boys  continued,  now  and  then 
11* 


126         The  Anticipations  and  Realities  of 

broken  by  a  fresh  arrival  of  young  ladies,  some- 
what less  infantine  than  the  early  comers,  —  among 
those  were  babies  in  the  arms  of  nurses.  There 
were  at  least  a  hundred  children  assembled,  and 
the  human  stream  still  flowed  cottageward. 

Mrs.  Sylvester  could  not  leave  her  post  to  start 
the  anticipated  games,  but  she  deputed  some  young 
ladies  to  undertake  this  task,  charging  them  to  in- 
vite the  boys  to  join  in  the  sports  and  mingle  with 
the  girls.  Task?  It  proved  a  task  indeed;  one 
not  to  be  accomplished  by  any  feminine  agency. 
To  engage  in  games  with  girls  did  not  comport 
with  the  precocious  dignity  of  Young  America. 
The  little  maidens  made  several  futile  attempts  at 
"  puss  in  the  corner,''  and  "  tag,"  and  "  Mason  and 
Dixon's  line,"  etc.,  but  the  crowd  was  too  great, 
and  the  games  were  hopelessly  abandoned. 

Mrs.  Svlvester  began  to  get  agitated  and  con- 
fused  as  she  watched  these  failing  efforts,  from  her 
station  at  the  gate ;  but  her  attention  was  soon 
taken  off  by  new  comers. 

By  and  by,  during  a  few  moments'  ebb  in  the 
current,  she  turned  her  eyes  again  towards  the 
garden,  that  garden  which  she  tended  with  so  much 
care,  every  tree,  and  shrub,  and  flower  of  which 
she  knew  and  loved.  What  a  scene  met  her  as- 
tonished gaze !  Some  of  the  boys  had  tied  the 
long  grass,  just  ready  for  the  scythe,  into  knots, 
and,  as  the  little  damsels  bounded  unsuspiciously 
over  the  turf,  one  after  another  stumbled  and  fell, 


A  Children  s  Parti/.  127 

rolling  down  the  green  slopes,  staining  their  white 
dresses,  and  scattering  the  rose-leaves  from  their 
crushed  garlands.  Ah,  lovely  little  maidens!  when 
you  have  wandered,  with  these  very  boys,  out  of 
the  gardens  of  childhood,  happy  are  ye  if  they  lay 
no  snares  in  your  verdant  pathway,  to  trip  your 
heedless  feet,  and  shake  the  roses  of  hope  and  joy 
from  your  brows ! 

Another  recreant  band  is  bending  down  the 
supple  young  fruit-trees,  and  swinging  from  the 
branches,  sending  showTers  of  tiny  green  apricots, 
peaches,  and  pears  through  the  air. 

Another  set  is  running  and  leaping  over  the 
blossoming  shrubs  and  bushy  young  trees.  Some 
boys  clear  them  with  wonderful  bounds,  some  miss 
the  leap  and  fall  into  the  midst  of  fig-trees  and 
young  quince-trees,  that  give  promise  of  much 
fruit.  That  boy  yonder,  with  the  bright  black 
eyes,  flashing  through  his  elfin  locks,  has  alighted 
in  the  very  centre  of  a  beautiful  pomegranate  bush ; 
another  has  tumbled  into  the  outspread  arms  of  a 
splendid  English  bay,  and  an  audible  crashing  of 
branches  accompanies  the  feat;  a  third,  —  no,  he 
clears  that  luxuriant  crape-myrtle  with  marvellous 
agility.  It  was  hardly  a  leap  ;  his  well-knit  form 
darted,  flying  through  the  air.  High  flights  attend 
that  boy  hereafter ! 

But  what  are  those  two  lawless  urchins  yonder, 
doing  ]  Good  gracious  !  they  are  climbing  up  the 
wire  trellis  that  forms  the  sides  of  the  summer- 


128         The  Anticipations  and  Realities  of 

house,  and  in  their  ascent  dragging  away  the  jes- 
samine, and  rose,  and  honeysuckle  vines  with 
which  it  is  draped.  What  can  they  be  seeking? 
oh,  horror!  they  are  surely  bent  on  reaching  and 
robbing  the  tiny  bird-house,  where  four  happy 
wrens  are  brooding  over  their  young.  The  male 
birds  are  wildly  flying  over  the  heads  of  the  mis- 
chievous twain,  uttering  doleful  prayers  for  mercy; 
Mrs.  Sylvester  echoes  their  cries,  as  she  deserts 
her  post  and  runs  to  their  protection.  She  had 
borne,  with  a  sort  of  distracted  patience,  the  loss 
of  the  fruit,  the  destruction  of  favorite  trees,  the 
trampling  of  bushes,  but  this  threatened  robbery 
of  the  birds'  nests  broke  the  spell,  and  put  forbear- 
ance to  flight. 

The  young  rebels  scrambled  down,  and  took  to 
their  heels  as  she  approached,  and  their  resonant 
laughter  was  the  only  answer  to  her  remon- 
strances. 

Then  she  rushed  about,  appealing  to  this  boy 
and  to  that,  to  spare  the  fruit,  the  trees,  the  shrubs, 
the  birds.  They  desisted  for  a  moment,  but  their 
sports  were  resumed  the  instant  her  back  was 
turned.  She  was  growing  dizzy  and  bewildered  ; 
the  turbulent  waves  of  boyhood  were  swelling  up 
around  her,  and  threatened  to  bury,  a  thousand 
fathoms  deep,  all  her  beautiful  visions  of  child- 
hood. But  had  she  not  wished  that  the  children 
would  enjoy  themselves  1  And  these  boys  were 
only  enjoying  themselves  in  the  fashion  most  con- 
genial to  their  sex. 


A  Children's  Party.  129 

She  overheard  one  merry  imp  whispering  to 
another,  "  Law  me,  Jim,  aint  Mrs.  Sylvester  in  a 
stew!"  —  not  a  very  classic  expression,  but  em- 
phatically descriptive  of  her  state,  as  her  burning 
cheeks  and  simmering  eyeballs  could  testify.  She 
had  fancifully  compared  the  children  in  the  gar- 
den yonder,  to  flowers,  and,  carrying  out  the  sim- 
ile, she  now  felt  herself  to  be  a  full  blown,  walk- 
ing peony,  with  scarlet  complexion  and  quivering 
leaves. 

The  frightened  girls,  some  bruised  by  their  falls, 
some  with  their  dresses  soiled  and  torn,  some 
with  tears  glistening  in  their  sweet  eyes,  were 
grouped  together  as  far  as  possible  from  their  piti- 
less tormentors.  What  was  to  be  done?  The 
spirit  of  mischief  had  been  let  loose,  and  could 
only  be  trapped  and  put  in  bonds  by  some  skilful 
ruse. 

Mrs.  Sylvester,  when  a  little  presence  of  mind 
returned,  remembered  that  refreshments  (in  ac- 
cordance with  another  of  her  romantic  ideas,)  were 
to  be  handed  about  in  the  open  air.  This  would 
only  aggravate  existing  evils ;  but  refreshments 
might  bait  the  trap  to  lure  the  young  destroyers 
out  of  their  conquered  territory. 

She  returned  to  the  house,  and  sent  a  messenger 
to  say  that  cake  and  lemonade  awaited  the  com- 
pany within  doors.  What  a  rush  of  flying  feet  to- 
wards the  cottage  followed  that  announcement! 
But  the  stratagem  had  succeeded.     The  garden 


130         The  Anticipations  and  Realities  of 

was  empty,  the  hall  and  dining-room  thronged  in 
a  moment.  All  the  boys  were  in  advance,  and 
held  the  best  positions  to  be  served,  for  the  little 
girls  had  walked  quietly,  their  arms  around  each 
other's  waists,  and  with  steps  that  betrayed  no  in- 
decorous haste. 

The  room  was  so  crowded  that  it  was  hardly 
possible  for  the  servants  to  pass  with  their  trays. 
No  need  for  them  to  make  the  attempt.  They  had 
scarcely  appeared  with  the  cake  and  lemonade, 
when  the  nearest  boys  charged  upon  them,  and  in 
a  moment,  as  if  by  magic,  every  cake  had  disap- 
peared, every  glass  was  drained.  The  waiters  were 
replenished  again,  and  again,  and  again,  but  the 
result  was  the  same.  The  young  gentlemen  evi- 
dently thought  that  the  good  things  of  this  world 
belonged  by  right  to  their  lordly  sex. 

Mrs.  Sylvester,  in  great  excitement,  now  sent  the 
servants  with  their  empty  salvers  from  the  apart- 
ment, and,  providing  herself  in  the  next  room  with 
one  large  dish  piled  high  with  cakes,  determined 
to  help  the  little  girls  herself.  She  innocently 
imagined  that  gentle  expostulations  with  the  boys 
would  have  some  weight,  —  the  cakes  had  more ! 
In  the  sudden  plunge  of  greedy,  masculine  hands, 
the  contents  of  the  dish  were  sent  flying  through 
the  air,  or  emptied  beneath  her  feet.  Forcing  a 
laugh,  a  piteous,  serio-comic  laugh,  that  sounded 
like  the  explosion  of  certain  airy  castles  inhabited 
by  visionary  children,  she   disappeared,  filled    the 


A  Children  s  Party.  131 

dish  once  more,  and  returned,  holding  it  high  above 
her  head.  How  her  arm  came  down,  she  neither 
saw  nor  knew ;  but  it  was  down,  in  a  second,  and 
the  dish  cakeless  in  another. 

Now  there  was  a  clamor  for  lemonade.  Some 
gallons  had  been  exhausted,  yet  the  cry  rose  on 
every  side,  "  Mrs.  Sylvester,  I've  had  no  lemonade  !  " 
"  I've  had  no  lemonade  !  "  "  Nor  I !  "  "  Nor  I !  " 
«  Nor  I !  " 

According  to  the  general  assertion  nobody  had 
tasted  lemonade,  though  so  many  gallons  had  disap- 
peared. 

Mrs.  Sylvester,  almost  beside  herself,  employed 
four  persons  to  make  lemonade  as  rapidly  as  eight 
hands  could  squeeze  lemons  and  crush  sugar. 
When  a  large  stone  jar  of  the  beverage  was  full, 
she  undertook  to  serve  the  lemonade  herself,  en- 
treating that  the  young  ladies  might  be  helped 
first. 

"  So  they  ought  to  be.  I  want  some  for  a  girl !  " 
shrieked  Youug  America. 

"  And  so  do  I !  " 

"And  so  do  I!" 

"  And  so  do  I,  too,  for  a  girl !  "  was  responded 
on  every  side. 

Mrs.  Sylvester  filled  the  glasses  of  these  gallant 
young  men  very  full.  They  were  emptied  in  a  mo- 
ment, and  returned  for  more.  And  now  the  general 
cry  was,  "  This  is  for  a  girl !  "  "  This  is  for  a  girl !  " 
and  a  brimming  glass  followed  the  words. 


132         The  Anticipations  and  Realities  of 

Mrs.  Sylvester  involuntarily  made  the  reflection 
that  the  girls  were  singularly  thirsty,  for  they  im- 
bibed the  refreshing  beverage  even  faster  than  the 
boys.  Just  then  she  noticed  some  of  the  urchins 
nudging  each  other,  their  eyes  sparkling  with  mis- 
chief, and  she  caught  the  sound  of  suppressed 
giggling.  Following  the  course  of  the  next  glass, 
that  she  might  see  to  what  girl  it  was  offered,  she 
beheld  a  young  rogue  carry  it  a  few  steps,  then 
turn  his  back  to  her,  gulp  down  the  contents,  and 
with  the  last  swallow  cry  out,  "  for  a  girl !  more 
for  a  girl !  " 

The  lemonade  was  exhausted,  for  the  present, 
but  busy  hands  were  concocting  fresh  gallons. 

Meanwhile  it  was  not  dark  enough  for  the  magic- 
lantern  to  be  exhibited,  and  the  young  gentleman 
who  had  amiably  promised  to  assume  the  duties  of 
showman  had  not  arrived.  The  lamp  contained 
camphene,  or  burning  fluid,  of  which  Mrs.  Sylves- 
ter had  the  greatest  horror.  But  she  must  set  aside 
her  idle  fears,  the  lantern  was  the  only  resource 
to  save  the  garden  from  complete  destruction.  The 
room  must  be  darkened  with  blinds  and  sashes,  and 
the  pictures  displayed. 

Tremblingly,  doubtingly,  nervously,  and  with  the 
conviction  that  she  was  vanquished  by  her  liliputian 
enemies,  Mrs.  Sylvester  began  the  necessary  prepa- 
rations. She  scanned  the  faces  of  the  youths  with 
searching  eyes,  and  then  selected  three  or  four  of 
the  least  boisterous  boys,  three  or  four  who  looked 


A  Children  s  Party.  133 

as  though  they  would  not  be  ashamed  to  lay  their 
heads  upon  a  mother's  or  a  sister's  shoulder,  and 
confide  their  griefs  or  aspirations,  and  these  boys 
she  requested  to  aid  her.  In  fact  she  allowed 
them  to  select  the  glasses  and  conduct  the  exhibi- 
tion, while  she  devoted  herself  to  keeping  the  lan- 
tern steady  and  preventing  the  pressure  of  the 
crowd  from  upsetting  that  frightful  lamp,  a  calam- 
ity momentarily  threatened. 

To  bring  benches  into  the  room,  as  Mrs.  Syl- 
vester had  intended,  was  quite  out  of  the  question. 
The  children  must  stand  at  the  sides  of  the  apart- 
ment or  sit  upon  the  floor.  The  circle  of  light  on 
the  sheet  extending  from  the  ceiling  to  the  ground, 
and  the  popping  up  of  little  heads,  and  the  crowd- 
ing and  pressing  into  the  centre  of  the  room  of 
little  figures,  continually  mingled  dark  shadows 
with  the  bright  colored  pictures.  In  spite  of  this 
blemish  there  was  much  clamorous  laughter  and 
many  exclamations  of  delight,  but  they  failed  to 
communicate  the  faintest  pleasure  to  the  ears  of 
poor,  weary  Mrs.  Sylvester.  She  was  watching 
the  lamp,  and  trembling  all  over  at  an  ominous 
bubbling  of  the  fluid,  which  she  did  not  compre- 
hend. Every  moment  she  grew  more  uneasy,  and 
after  about  an  hour  and  a  half  of  terror  for  her 
young  guests,  as  well  as  herself,  she  suppressed  a 
number  of  glasses  and  informed  the  juvenile  au- 
dience that  the  exhibition  was  over. 

What  was  to  be  done  with  the  children  until 
12 


134         The  Anticipations  and  Realities  of 

supper  was  ready  ?  The  garden  was  free  from 
invasion,  for  it  was  quite  dark,  and  Mrs.  Sylvester, 
when  she  looked  out  and  saw  there  was  no  moon 
rising,  felt  truly  thankful.  The  crowd  was  too 
dense  within  doors  for  games  to  be  attempted. 
Mrs.  Sylvester  was  beginning  to  feel  that  this 
horrible  nightmare  of  children,  weighing  upon 
her  spirit,  would  never  come  to  an  end,  when  she 
heard  the  notes  of  her  piano.  A  friend,  who  to 
Mrs.  Sylvester's  fevered  imagination  seemed  as 
though  she  had  dropped  from  the  clouds  to  her 
rescue,  just  as  she  was  completely  conquered,  had 
struck  up  a  dance.  That  was  precisely  what  the 
children  desired.  Their  little  feet  were  ready  for 
dancing ;  besides,  when  a  dance  was  in  question, 
the  young  gentlemen  condescended  to  think  that 
girls  were  not  altogether  a  nuisance.  They  did 
very  well  for  partners  !  Alas  !  how  many  of  these 
hereafter  will  choose  partners,  not  companions  ! 
Sets  were  made  up  in  the  dining  room,  in  the  entry, 
in  the  parlor,  and  Mrs.  Sylvester,  with  a  lightened 
heart,  left  them  gayly  footing  it  to  music  while  she 
looked  after  supper. 

She  had  provided,  she  th6ught,  a  bountiful  sup- 
ply of  everything,  but  now  her  mind  began  to 
misgive  her,  and  she  sent  domestics  in  haste  for 
more  ice  cream,  more  oranges,  more  "  pop  kisses," 
more  everything,  and  "  as  much  as  they  could 
carry"  was  her  vague  and  extravagant  injunction. 

An  old  family  servant  of  color  suggested  that 


A  Children 's  Parti/.  135 

all  the  doors  of  the  supper  room  should  be  guard- 
ed, save  one,  that  he  should  stand  at  that,  and 
admit  none  but  young  ladies  :  this  arrangement 
was  triumphantly  carried  into  effect.  The  boys 
clamored  for  admission  in  vain ;  "  Uncle  Henry" 
lectured  them  roundly,  and  almost  fought  them 
back.  The  little  girls  were  helped  in  peace,  and 
very  merry  and  happy  they  looked.  When  "  Un- 
cle Henry "  gave  the  order,  they  quietly  made 
their  exit  at  one  door  and  in  rushed  the  boys  at 
the  opposite ! 

But  we  will  spare  Mrs.  Sylvester's  feelings, 
should  her  eye  ever  fall  upon  this  faithful  narra- 
tive, and,  as  the  novelists  say,  "  draw  a  veil  over 
that  scene  !  "  We  really  believe  Mrs.  Sylvester  was 
weak  enough  to  draw  one,  in  the  shape  of  a  cam- 
bric handkerchief,  over  her  face  ;  and  we  know 
she  at  that  moment  heartily  repented  all  the  un- 
charitable words  and  thoughts  of  which  she  had 
been  guilty  towards  those  mothers  who  groaned 
under  the  weight  of  a  too  abundant  supply  of  little 
ones,  and  she  came  to  the  melancholy  conclusion 
that  probably  there  was  only  one  place  in  which 
there  could  not  be  too  many  children  congregated, 
for  their  own  perfect  joy  and  the  happiness  of 
others,  and  that  was  —  heaven ! 


IT  MIGHT  BE  WORSE. 


ISHOP  HALL  said,  "  For  every  bad 
there  might  be  a  worse ;  and  when  a 
man  breaks  his  leg,  let  him  be  thankful  it 
is  not  his  neck."  Into  what  insignificance  a  mis- 
fortune, we  bewailed  as  unendurable,  suddenly 
sinks  when  compared  with  the  crushing  calamity 
that  desolates  the  home  of  a  friend!  The  hill-fire, 
whose  far-shining  signal  light  warns  an  army  of 
the  approach  of  a  foe,  fades  into  a  mere  rush-candle 
when  contrasted  with  the  angry  jets  of  liquid  flame 
leaping  from  the  heart  of  Vesuvius,  and  threaten- 
ing incalculable  destruction.  Beauty  is  heightened 
or  eclipsed,  size  magnified  or  diminished,  color 
changed,  sound  altered,  the  sense  of  pain  or  pleas- 
ure intensified  or  deadened,  by  contrast. 

We  were  once  forcibly  struck  by  the  philosophy 
of  a  friend  who  had  disciplined  herself,  whenever 
she  was  assailed  by  a  crowd  of  tantalizing  vexa- 
tions, or  oppressive  troubles,  to  compare  her  trials 
with  the  severer  affliction  of  some  greater  mourner, 
and  to  ejaculate,  mentally,  "  It  might  be  worse  ! 
With  that  reflection  came  a  sense  of  thankfulness 
that  she  had  been  spared  a  superlative  evil ;  pa- 

(136) 


It  might  be   Worse.  137 

tience  and  cheerfulness  ensued,  and  she  was  pre- 
served from  falling  into  the  common,  egotistical 
error  of  believing  that  the  cross  allotted  to  herself, 
was  heavier  than  that  borne  by  any  other  shoul- 
ders. 

This  friend  was  asked  in  what  manner  she  first 
contracted  the  above  mentioned  consoling  habit; 
in  answer,  she  related  the  following  anecdote  : 

Her  early  youth  was  rich  in  promised  joys  and 
present  blessings  ;  but  to  this  hope-blossoming 
calm,  succeeded  a  sudden  whirlwind  of  trials  ;  the 
loss  of  fortune,  the  treachery  of  trusted  friends,  the 
death-menacing  illness  of  the  nearest  and  dearest, 
her  own  failing  health,  combined  with  the  absolute 
necessity  of  daily  encountering  severest  toil.  She 
had  been  struggling  with  this  accumulation  of  sor- 
rows for  a  couple  of  years  or  more.  She  was 
weary  of  her  ceaseless  exertions,  dispirited,  full  of 
repining,  fearful  of  the  future,  thankless  for  the 
past,  and  fully  convinced  that  her  fate  in  life  was 
the  hardest  ever  apportioned  to  mortal.  She  had 
become  a  total  stranger  to  that  happy  philosophy 
which 

"  bids  the  heart  whose  sun  is  low,  to  borrow 


A  smile  upon  the  credit  of  a  golden  morrow.1' 

At  this  period  she  was  sojourning  in  a  western 
city,  to  which  her  duties  summoned  her.  There 
she  constantly  visited  a  charming  family,  at  whose 
fireside  Peace  and  Content  seemed  to  have  raised 

12* 


138  It  might  be  Worse. 

indestructible  altars.  But  our  friend  says  the 
sphere  of  joyous  serenity  by  which  that  home  was 
pervaded,  made  her  more  impatient  when  she  con- 
trasted her  own  restless,  wandering,  unsatisfactory 
life  with  the  calm  existence  of  that  dwelling's  in- 
habitants. 

The  lovely  children  of  the  hostess  became  much 
attached  to  this  frequent  guest.  They  flew  to  meet 
her,  like  a  flock  of  pigeons,  whenever  she  came, 
hung  around  her  with  a  fondness  that  soothed  her 
aching  heart,  and  prattled  about  her  continually 
in  her  absence.  Several  times,  while  she  was 
talking  to  these  beloved  little  ones,  she  noticed, 
half  hidden  by  an  open  door,  a  figure  that  seemed 
to  be  watching  her.  If  she  moved,  to  obtain  a 
nearer  view,  the  form  invariably  disappeared.  Day 
after  day  her  curiosity  was  excited  by  this  myste- 
rious presence.  Politeness  closed  her  lips,  for  it 
was  hardly  possible  that  the  mother  and  children 
should  not  be  aware  of  what  she  was  so  conscious. 
Indeed,  several  times,  when  she  had  related  some 
hair-breadth  escape  encountered  in  her  travels,  a 
low  sound,  like  a  murmur  of  sympathy,  or  a  sup- 
pressed groan,  came  from  the  direction  of  the  con- 
cealed shape. 

At  length,  curiosity  conquered  our  friend's  sense 
of  courtesy,  and  one  day  she  turned  to  her  hostess 
and  said,  "  You  know  I  am  lamentably  supersti- 
tious, and  at  this  very  moment  my  imagination  is 
almost  worked  up  into  believing  that  there  is  some 


It  might  be   Worse.  139 

unearthly  visitant  near  us.  Do  not  think  me  very 
rude,  though  I  fear  I  am,  but,  pray,  do  tell  me  who 
that  is  yonder ;  I  can  just  see  the  waving  of  a 
white  dress,  and  I  have  wondered  over  and  over 
again,  to  whom  it  belonged." 

The  words  were  hardly  spoken  when  an  excla- 
mation of  pain  struck  upon  her  ear,  and  the  slen- 
der form  of  a  young  girl,  covering  her  face  with 
her  hands,  was  distinctly  seen  hurrying  away. 

A  dead  silence  ensued.  The  mother  looked 
deeply  distressed,  the  children  turned  to  her  but 
did  not  speak. 

"  Poor  Ellen !  "  at  last  she  exclaimed,  "  what  a 
pity  you  have  noticed  her!  She  took  so  much 
pleasure  in  listening  to  you  and  watching  you." 

"Ellen?  Who  is  she?  Is  she  one  of  the 
family?" 

"  Yes ;  my  husband's  daughter  by  his  first  mar- 
riage, a  young  girl  of  sixteen.  She  —  she  is 
an  — "  and  the  speaker  hesitated  and  added  in 
a  tone  of  tender  pity,  "  an  invalid,  one  sorely 
afflicted." 

"  But  will  she  not  come  into  the  room  and  be 
introduced,  if  she  cares  to  see  me?  I  would  like 
to  know  her  ;  do  ask  her  to  come." 

"No  —  she  cannot  —  she  would  rather  not  — 
it  would  not  be  possible  to  induce  her,"  replied 
the  lady,  with  an  embarrassed  air.  An  instant 
afterwards  she  turned  the  conversation. 

At  our  friend's  next  visit,  and  the  next,  and  the 


140  It  might  be   Worse, 

next,  there  was  no  dress  floating  to  and  fro  be- 
hind that  door,  no  sound  which  betrayed  an  un- 
seen listener.  But  this  unknown  Ellen  was  con- 
stantly present  to  her  imagination.  Why  did  she 
appear  no  more  ?  What  was  the  mystery  attached 
to  her  1  Why  could  she  not  be  seen  ?  Tormented 
by  these  interrogatories  of  a  curious  spirit,  the  vis- 
itor ventured  to  ask  her  hostess  how  Ellen  was. 

"  About  the  same,"  she  replied,  gravely ;  "  she 
is  not  likely  to  be  any  better." 

"  Is  her  disease  hopeless,  then  f  " 

"  Yes,  perfectly  so ;  "  and  she  conversed  on  other 
subjects. 

A  few  days  afterward  the  hall  door  chanced  to 
be  open  when  our  friend  called,  and  she  entered 
the  house  without  ringing  or  knocking.  As  she 
appeared,  a  young  girl  fled  along  the  entry  and 
rapidly  mounted  the  stair.  Surely  the  step  was 
not  that  of  one  enfeebled  by  a  hopeless  illness. 
The  form  was  very  fragile,  but  did  not  lack  a  cer- 
tain elastic  grace.  The  face  was  partially  covered 
by  a  white  bandage,  leaving  only  the  eyes  and 
brow  visible.  A  pair  of  frightened  blue  eyes  and 
a  low  brow,  over  which  the  brown  hair  was  care- 
fully smoothed.     Was  this  Ellen  ? 

The  guest  told  her  hostess  of  the  accidental 
meeting,  and,  taking  courage,  urged  her  to  con- 
fide the  nature  of  Ellen's  affliction  to  one  who 
already  felt  an  indescribable  interest  in  the  youthful 
recluse.  With  no  little  reluctance  the  lady  com- 
plied. 


It  might  be   Worse.  141 

Owing  to  the  death  of  Ellen's  mother,  the  child 
was  entrusted  to  a* wet  nurse.  This  unprincipled 
woman  artfully  concealed  from  the  father  and  the 
physician  that  she  was  a  victim  to  scrofula.  The 
infant  was  a  lovely,  healthy  little  girl,  of  fine 
promise  ;  but  the  milk  by  which  she  was  nourished, 
diseased,  poisoned  her  blood.  Its  effects  culmi- 
nated when  she  reached  her  fourteenth  year. 
Just  at  the  age  when  a  young  maiden  begins  to 
value  her  personal  appearance,  the  venom  imbibed 
in  infancy  developed  itself  in  a  cancer  in  the  nose, 
an  affection  of  the  throat  which  impaired  her 
speech,  and  a  disease  of  the  eyes  which  threatened 
blindness.  Her  sufferings  were  intense  beyond 
description.  She  was  forced  to  submit  to  the  most 
torturing  medical, treatment,  and  after  a  time  the 
disease  was  in  a  measure  checked.  Her  sight  was 
restored,  her  throat  better  ;  but  the  palate  had  been 
completely  destroyed,  and  her  voice  had  a  guttural, 
discordant  sound  ;  her  nose  was  partly  eaten  away  ; 
and  the  disfigurement  of  her  whole  countenance 
so  shocking,  that  she  was  hardly  recognizable.  It 
might  well  make  the  beholder  think,  with  a  shud- 
der, of  the  story  of  Acco,  (of  classic  memory,) 
who  went  mad  when  she  viewed  her  own  hideous- 
ness  in  a  looking-glass,  and  almost  fear  that  the 
same  fate  misdit  befall  Ellen. 

She  lived  in  total  seclusion ;  she  fled  from  stran- 
gers, and  had  a  mortal  horror  of  any  eye  resting 
upon  her ;  and  if  she  wrent  into  the  street,  she  was 
so  closely  veiled  that  she  could  scarcely  breathe. 


142  It  might  be   Worse. 

She  heard  her  young  sisters  describing  enjoy- 
ments which  she  could  never  share.  She  saw 
them  grow  in  beauty,  while  her  lamentable  de- 
formity increased.  She  was  morbidly  sensitive  to 
her  own  condition,  and  keenly  felt  the  irremediable 
blight  that  had  fallen  upon  her  whole  existence. 

The  constant  prattling  of  the  children  about 
their  favorite  guest  had  awakened  Ellen's  interest, 
aod  she  so  earnestly  longed  to  see  her,  that,  at  last, 
with  their  connivance,  she  had  stolen  from  her  re- 
tirement, and  concealed  herself  behind  a  door  of 
the  drawing-room,  to  hear  and  see  unperceived. 

After  listening  to  this  piteous  story,  our  friend 
warmly  entreated  that  she  might  be  allowed  to 
make  Ellen's  acquaintance,  might  behold  and  con- 
verse with  her.  The  poor  sufferer  was  with  diffi- 
culty persuaded  to  grant  this  request,  but  at  length 
she  was  led  into  the  room  by  her  tender  and  de- 
voted step-mother,  who  placed  Ellen's  hand  in  that 
of  the  stranger. 

Oh  !  what  a  terrible  revealing  of  the  possible 
miseries  to  which  humanity  may  be  exposed,  was 
this  young  girl's  history  to  that  stranger ! 

Ellen's  mercurial  temperament  heightened  her 
affliction.  She  had  quick  sensibilities,  ardent  en- 
thusiasm, a  strong  desire  to  love  and  be  loved, 
to  mingle  with  her  fellow-beings,  to  shine,  to  en- 
joy, and  yet  life's  commonest  gifts  to  humanity, 
were  all  denied  her !  Still  she  was  not  wholly 
miserable.     The  seeds  of  piety,  early  inseminated 


It  might  be   Worse.  143 

in  her  mind,  sprang  up  and  bore  fruit  which  nour- 
ished her  spirit,  and  prevented  the  mental  starva- 
tion of  utter  despair. 

And  one  happiness  at  last  was  granted  her ;  one 
unhoped-for  friendship  became  hers.  She  quickly 
formed  a  strong,  an  almost  idolizing,  attachment  to 
the  stranger,  whose  visits  to  the  house  were  hence- 
forth especially  her  own.  When  Ellen  and  her 
new  friend  were  compelled  to  part,  the  wretched 
girl  threw  herself  into  that  friend's  arms,  sobbing 
violently,  and  caught  the  hand  lifted  to  dry  her 
tears,  and  placed  upon  it  a  ring  of  gold,  with  a 
heart  in  the  centre,  saying,  *;  Oh  !  look  at  it  often. 
Think  of  me  often  !  often  !  often  !  " 

It  was  strange  to  hear  that  harsh,  hollow  voice, 
tremulous  with  emotion,  and  uttering  such  touching 
words,  strange  to  see  the  dim,  restless  eyes  so  full 
of  love  and  tears. 

Think  of  her  often  !  Who  could  have  forgotten 
her "?  The  whole  life  of  the  being,  on  whose  hand 
that  ring  had  been  placed,  was  changed  by  her 
intercourse  with  this  stricken  girl.  As  she  gazed 
upon  the  simple  token,  she  said  to  herself  again 
and  again,  "Ellen!  Ellen!  what  are  my  sorrows, 
contrasted  with  yours  ?  WThat  are  my  sufferings, 
sacrifices,  privations,  compared  to  the  dreary  blank 
of  your  joyless  existence  I  I  will  never  dare  to  re- 
pine or  rebel  again  !  When  I  think  of  Ellen,  I 
will  always  remember  how  much  worse  my  trials 
might  have  been !  " 


144  It  might  be   Worse. 

Ellen's  devotion  to  her  friend  strengthened  even 
until  the  hour  of  her  death,  which  took  place  some 
years  later.  They  corresponded  faithfully,  and  in 
her  letters  Ellen  poured  out  her  full  heart.  After 
the  lapse  of  a  few  years,  they  met  once  more.  The 
storms  had  blown  over  the  head  of  one,  time  had 
soothed  some  of  her  sorrows,  success  had  rewarded 
her  exertions,  many  a  wound  had  healed,  and  many 
a  broken  link  of  friendship  had  been  re-united ; 
but  the  unmitigated  gloom  that  surrounded  Ellen 
was  imprevious  to  a  single  ray  of  joy.  She  grew 
feebler  and  feebler,  her  sufferings  and  her  disfig- 
urement increased,  until  the  one  joyful  hour  when 
her  Master  bade  her  fling  off  the  poor,  mangled, 
earthly  garment  of  her  soul  and  stand  before  his 
presence,  robed  in  the  eternal  loveliness  of  her 
pain-purified  spirit. 

Her  memory  was  greenly  preserved  in  the  heart 
of  her  friend,  the  thought  of  Ellen  blunted  the 
sting  of  many  an  arrow,  lifted  the  weight  from 
many  a  burden,  and  taught  her,  with  each  new 
trouble,  to  reflect,  "  It  might  be  worse  !  " 


TOO  GOOD  A  HOUSEWIFE. 


,HAT  a  lovely  looking  bride  was  Khoda 
Fielding !  What  a  spring-like  aspect 
she  had !  What  an  embodiment  of 
bloom  and  freshness  she  seemed  !  That  round, 
smooth  face,  tinted  like  an  apple  blossom,  that 
furrowless  brow,  (somewhat  too  low  and  narrow, 
but  redeemed  by  rich  clusters  of  chestnut  curls,) 
those  cloudless  eyes  and  velvety  lips,  theirs  was  the 
beauty  of  untried  youth  ;  beaute  du  diable,  as  it  is  too 
expressively  called  by  the  French.  Then  Rhoda 
was  so  artless,  so  frank-hearted,  so  unsophisticated ! 
just  what  Edmund  Fielding  most  admired  in  woman- 
hood. Charmed  by  the  glittering  surface  of  the 
stream  it  was  but  natural  that  he  never  dived  be- 
neath, to  note  what  shells,  or  pebbles,  lay  within 
its  channel,  ready  to  be  cast  up  by  the  surging  tide 
of  matrimony.  He  had  yearned  for  the  first,  pure, 
uncalculating  affection  of  a  guileless  maiden,  and 
that  he  had  won.  A  man  of  cultivated  mind  and 
highly  intellectual  tastes,  he  expected  to  find  in  his 
youthful  wife  a  plastic,  genial  and  appreciating 
companion  ;  but  whether  Rhoda's  mental  attributes, 

13  (145) 


146  Too  Good  a  Housewife. 

and  the  precepts  instilled  by  a  very  ordinary  mother, 
had  fitted  her  for  such  companionship  were  ques- 
tions never  asked.  That  mother  had  but  one 
distinguishing  characteristic,  she  was  a  thrifty  and 
notable  housewife  ;  in  all  other  respects  the  term 
"  common-place "  described  her  so  fully  that  her 
portrait  can  demand  no  additional  touches. 

Rhoda  was  flattered  by  Mr.  Fielding's  election, 
she  admired  his  tall  and  handsome  person,  she 
was  proud  of  his  acquirements,  and  the  slight  touch 
of  awe  with  which  his  stately  manners,  and  evident 
superiority,  inspired  her,  only  heightened  her  affec- 
tion ;  for,  womanlike,  her  heart  was  stirred  by  an 
irresistible  impulse  to  look  up  fondly  to  what  was 
higher  than  herself,  to  love  what  she  could  lean 
upon  as  stronger  and  cling  to  as  worthier. 

The  newly  married  pair  were  starting  on  their 
wedding  tour  as  I  bade  them  adieu.  Four  years 
rolled  on  before  we  met  again. 

Rhoda  was  now  the  mistress  of  an  imposing 
mansion,  pleasantly  located  in  one  of  our  largest 
Northern  cities.  The  drawing  room  which  I  en- 
tered, to  await  her  appearance,  had  an  air  of  cold 
luxury,  rather  than  of  habitable  comfort.  Costly 
chairs  and  sofas  stood  primly  ranged  against  the 
walls,  looking  as  though  they  forbade  you  to  stir 
them.  A  few  albums  and  show-books  were  laid, 
in  a  set  way,  upon  the  centre  table,  but  no  volume 
that  appeared  as  though  it  were  ever  read,  was 
visible.     Though  I  had  called  at  the  usual  visiting 


Too  Good  a  Housewife.  147 

hour,  sometime  elapsed  before  Rhoda  ascended 
from  the  lower  domestic  regions,  where  she  had 
been  occupied  by  her  menage. 

She  saluted  me  with  "  I'm  right  glad  to  see  you ! 
I  was  so  busy,  but  I  didn't  mind  being  interrupted 
by  you ! " 

This  assurance  rather  discomposed  me,  for  it 
suggested  a  doubt  which  would  not  otherwise  have 
intruded  itselfinto  my  mind. 

Ehoda  ran  on :  "  This  housekeeping  takes  up  so 
much  time,  you  know;  and  I  always  look  after 
things  myself." 

I  placed  in  her  hand  a  bouquet  of  fragrant, 
freshly  gathered  flowers. 

"  You're  very  good,"  she  said,  taking  them  in  a 
half  careless,  half  reluctant  manner.  There  was 
no  expression  of  pleasure  in  her  tone,  and  her 
doubtful  look  at  the  floral  offering  communicated  a 
secret  misgiving  that,  had  not  politeness  withheld 
her,  she  would  have  flung  the  odorous  blossoms 
out  of  the  window.  She  fidgeted  a  moment,  then 
rose  hastily,  and,  with  considerable  bustle,  pro- 
cured a  glass  of  water,  remarking  as  she  inserted 
the  stems,  "  I  don't  usually  allow  flowers  in  this 
room ;  they're  such  untidy  things,  they  drop  about 
so,  and  make  such  a  litter."    . 

As  she  spoke  she  carefully  gathered  up  the  fallen 
leaves  of  a  full-blown  damask  rose,  and  threw  them 
into  the  street,  with  an  action  which  seemed  to  say, 
"  unclean !  "     Her  mien  impressed  me  with  a  fear 


148  Too   Good  a  Housewife. 

that  even  thus,  through  over  solicitude,  she  had 
cast  the  flowers  of  her  life  away,  and  left  the  bare 
stalk  of  utility  unadorned  by  foliage  of  taste,  or 
bloom  of  beauty.  There  was  a  working-day  air 
about  her  too  strongly  en  evidence.  Her  dress  was 
simple  and  serviceable,  but  it  lacked  the  tasteful- 
ness  which  makes  simplicity  charming.  Her  hair 
was  neatly  arranged,  but  becomingness  evidently 
had  not  been  taken  into  consideration.  With  the 
freshness  of  her  countenance  much  of  its  loveli- 
ness had  passed  away  ;  what  remained  was  obscured 
by  total  disregard  of  accordant  colors  and  graceful 
arrangement  of  drapery.  Her  olden  look  of  frank 
inexperience  was  displaced  by  a  careworn,  fussy 
expression.  Her  buoyancy  had  changed  to  restless- 
ness. You  saw  at  once  that  she  magnified  the 
most  insignificant  mole  hills  in  her  path  into  moun- 
tains of  trial,  and,  veritably,  had  become  a  female 
Don  Quixote  in  battling  with  domestic  wind- 
mills. 

Just  as  she  seated  herself  once  more  beside  me, 
the  loud  yell  of  an  infantine  voice  made  her  start 
up  and  exclaim  "  That's  Jim  !  he  has  knocked  his 
head  again !  he's  always  knocking  that  dreadful 
head  of  his.  He'll  be  the  death  of  me  !  "  and  she 
rushed  out  of  the  room. 

By  and  by,  she  returned,  dragging  after  her  a 
robust  little  boy,  whose  shining  face  and  moist  hair 
testified  to  a  recent  hurried  ablution. 

"  I  told  you  Jim  had  knocked  his  head,  he's  al- 


Too  Good  a  Housewife.  149 

ways  knocking  his  head,  or  cutting  his  fingers,  or 
lighting  papers  in  the  fire  and  nearly  burning  him- 
self and  his  little  sister  up  !  I  never  get  a  mo- 
ment's peace  with  the  two  !  " 

"Have  you  no  nurse  then]  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  of  course,  I've  a  nurse ;  but  I've  no  faith 
in  servants,  I  never  trust  them ;  as  to  their  having 
any  idea  of  responsibility,  it's  out  of  the  ques- 
tion ! " 

As  she  spoke,  a  neat-looking  Irish  girl,  appeared 
at  the  door,  and  said,  t;  Baby's  awake,  ma'am ;  may 
I  take  her  up  ?  " 

"  No,  don't  touch  her  !  "  answered  Khoda,  almost 
fiercely  ;  "  I'll  see  to  her  myself.  Excuse  me  a 
moment ;  "  and  off  she  flew  again,  with  Master 
Jim  making  desperate  plunges  at  her  gown,  and 
roaring  lustily  as  he  pursued  her. 

The  interval  that  now  elapsed  seemed  very  long. 
I  earnestly  desired  to  have  a  pleasant  chat  with 
Ehoda,  to  ask  her  numberless  questions  about  her- 
self, her  husband,  and  our  mutual  friends,  but  the 
object  of  my  visit  seemed  likely  to  be  frustrated. 
At  last  Hhoda  reappeared  with  a  plump,  cherry- 
cheeked  little  girl  in  her  arms.  She  did  not  ex- 
hibit "baby"  with  that  proud  maternal  delight 
which  it  is  always  beautiful  to  witness,  but  as 
though  she  felt  overwhelmed  by  the  cares  and 
troubles  of  motherhood,  and  quite  unconscious  of 
its  joys.  She  told  me  what  dreadful  nights  she 
passed  with  her  infants,  she  recounted  all  the  hor- 

13* 


150  Too  Good  a  Housewife. 

rors  of  teeth-cutting,  described  the  numerous  in- 
fantine diseases  by  which  the  young  ones  had  been 
attacked  (illustrating  the  effects  of  various  treat- 
ment by  biographical  anecdotes) ;  related  what 
difficulties  she  encountered  in  keeping  the  scape- 
graces tidily  dressed ;  mourned  over  their  unrea- 
sonable proclivity  to  soil  bibs  and  tear  frocks,  and 
lamented  their  unnatural  partiality  for  dirty  hands 
and  daubed  faces. 

The  history  of  her  nursery  grievances  had 
evidently  not  reached  its  climax,  when  Master  Jim 
rushed  into  the  room  bawling  out,  "  Ma,  cook  says 
she  wants  more  butter  for  the  pudding,  and  she 
wants  you  to  know  the  coal's  nearly  out ! " 

"Dear  me!  dear  me!  how  annoying!"  ejacu- 
lated Rhoda,  with  a  face  as  full  of  distress  as  if 
she  had  heard  of  some  actual  calamity.  "  What 
cart  loads  of  butter  that  cook  uses !  And  what  a 
quantity  of  coal  she  burns  !  I'm  always  talking  to 
her  about  her  fire !  It's  blazing  hot,  I  warrant,  at 
this  blessed  moment.  You  must  excuse  me  a  mo- 
ment ;  I'm  glad  to  see  an  old  friend,  you  know,  but 
household  matters  must  be  looked  after  ;  business, 
as  the  men  say,  business  before  pleasure.  I'll  be 
back  in  a  minute." 

Away  she  went  once  more,  and  I  heard  her 
calling  to  the  nurse  to  relieve  her  of  the  baby.  A 
loud  shrieking  announced  when  the  exchange  was 
made,  and  that  was  followed  by  the  vigorous  ex- 
ercise of  somewhat  older  lungs.     Master  Jim  must 


Too   Good  a  Housewife.  151 

have  again  indulged  in  that  constitutional  pro- 
pensity for  knocking  his  head.  Then  I  could  dis- 
tinguish Rhoda's  voice  pitched  in  a  high  key,  it 
sounded  very  like  scolding ;  and  how  shrill  that 
voice  had  grown !  It  was  positively  discordant, 
and  once  we  all  used  to  think  it  so  sweet !  Another, 
longer  interval  ensued,  and  then  Rhoda  entered 
the  room  once  more ;  panting  from  her  exertions. 
She  was  in  the  act  of  putting  her  purse,  pencil  and 
tablets  in  her  pocket. 

"  You  see  I  put  down  everything  I  spend,"  she 
began,  without  apologizing  for  her  absence,  "  and 
such  a  time  as  it  takes  me  !  What  with  the  chil- 
dren, and  the  servants,  and  the  housekeeping,  I've 
enough  to  do  ;  I  get  no  time  to  myself! " 

"  Not  even  to  read  a  little,  now  and  then,"  I 
ventured  to  suggest. 

"  Oh,  dear,  no  !  I  never  get  a  chance  to  open  a 
book.  Edmund  does  all  the  reading.  He  com- 
plains bitterly  that  I  don't  keep  up  with  the  litera- 
ture of  the  day ;  men  are  so  unreasonable,  you 
know ;  as  if  I  had  time  for  literature  with  a  house, 
and  four  servants,  and  two  children  !  " 

"  But  might  he  not  read  to  you  in  the  eve- 
ning? " 

"  That's  just  what  he  proposed,  but  I'm  called 
out  of  the  room  so  often,  it  interrupts  him,  and 
makes  him  nervous  ;  and  then  I've  so  much  cut- 
ting out  and  planning  to  do,  besides  sewing,  that  I 
can't  listen.     Then  Edmund's  always  plaguing  me 


152  Too  Good  a  Housewife. 

to  go  with  him  and  hear  some  lecturer,  or  go  to  a 
concert,  or  somewhere  or  other ;  but  it's  quite  out 
of  the  question,  I  can't  spare  the  time.  But  he 
can't  understand  it ;  you  know,  men  never  have 
any  thought !  He  says  he  wishes  I'd  hire  another 
servant  and  so  be  able  to  go  out  with  him,  now  and 
then.  Isn't  he  unreasonable  ]  As  if  I  hadn't 
servants  enough  to  plague  me.  Then,  you  know, 
men  are  so  selfish.  Would  you  believe  it?  while 
I'm  slaving  at  home,  he  actually  goes  to  places  of 
amusement  without  me,  and  says  he  needs  recrea- 
tion !  But  the  idea  of  tormenting  me  to  engage 
another  servant !  Why,  do  you  know  my  Kate 
and  Martha  both  have  'followers,'  and  I  had  to  go 
down  yesterday  evening  and  turn  the  men  out  of 
the  kitchen !  Of  course,  these  '  followers '  get 
their  suppers  here,  and  that's  the  reason  there's 
always  so  little  cold  turkey  left,  and  the  hams  don't 
last  longer." 

Rhoda  rattled  on  in  the  same  strain  as  long  as 
my  visit  lasted ;  the  rule  and  guardianship  of  her 
house  and  children  wholly  engrossed  her  mind,  ab- 
sorbed all  her  ideas.  I  talked  to  her  of  our  old 
friends.  She  had  not  seen  them,  she  had  no  time 
to  visit.  I  related  what  had  occurred  to  this  one 
and  that.  She  scarcely  listened  to  the  information. 
I  spoke  of  music  of  which  she  was  once  so  fond  ; 
her  sweet  singing  Mr.  Fielding  had  especially  ad- 
mired ;  she  had  quite  given  up  music,  she  said  ;  she 
never  sang  except  to  put  the  children  to  sleep.     I 


Too  Good  a  Housewife.  153 

tried  to  turn  the  conversation  to  the  topics  of  the 
day  ;  Ehoda  might  as  well  have  lived  in  Kamtchatka, 
for  all  she  knew  about  them.  I  sought  for  subject 
after  subject  that  might  interest  her,  but  with  no 
success.  Her  thoughts  could  not  wander  out  of 
the  little,  narrow  sphere  of  her  household,  and  yet 
only  dwelt  upon  its  vexations,  not  its  blessings  ;  its 
responsibilities,  not  its  comforts. 

Other  visits  brought  but  a  repetition  of  the  in- 
cidents of  this.  I  saw  Mr.  Fielding,  he  looked 
dissatisfied,  desponding,  disheartened.  The  instant 
he  entered  the  house,  Ehoda  invariably  poured  into 
his  ears  a  long  history  of  her  domestic  "  bothers," 
made  up  of  complaints  about  the  smallness  of  the 
loaves  brought  by  the  baker ;  suspicions  that  the 
butcher  cheated ;  discoveries  that  the  cook  sold  the 
dripping ;  vexations  at  the  breakage  of  china ; 
followed  by  a  minute  account  of  the  misdemeanors 
of  the  servants ;  the  naughtiness  of  the  children ; 
the  accidents  they  had  met  during  the  day  ;  (the 
number  of  knocks  received  by  Master  Jim's  head 
being  religiously  counted ;)  and  Rhoda's  own  fears 
for  their  health  and  morals.  If,  after  a  series  of 
patient  and  considerate  replies,  her  husband  ven- 
tured to  introduce  other  topics,  she  charged  him  with 
want  of  feeling  and  a  disregard  of  her  troubles ; 
or  else  paid  no  attention  to  what  he  was  saying. 
She  met  his  entreaties  that  she  would  walk  out 
with  him,  by  saying  that  she  -had  shopping  to  do, 
and  would  go  if  he  would  promise  to  be  very  patient. 


154  Too  Good  a  Housewife. 

The  walk  only  extended  half  a  mile  down  Broad- 
way, yet  it  consumed  three  hours,  chiefly  passed 
in  shops. 

Marriage  had  been  a  bitter  disappointment  to 
Mr.  Fielding.  He  had  looked  for  a  companion, 
and  found  a  housekeeper  and  nursery-maid. 
Hhoda  could  not  comprehend  that  he  needed  the 
society  of  one  who  could  sympathize  with  and  ap- 
preciate him,  and  that  men  demand  appreciation 
almost  more  than  they  desire  affection.  She  be- 
lieved herself  very  thoughtful  of  his  well  being, 
and  honestly  considered  that  she  discharged  her 
whole  duty  towards  him  by  keeping  his  house  in 
order  (no  matter  through  what  scuffling  and  scram- 
bling), by  superintending  the  cooking  of  his  meals  ; 
and  being  irreproachable  on  the  linen,  button,  and 
stocking  question. 

As  a  natural  sequence  of  his  mistake,  Mr. 
Fielding  will,  in  time,  seek  his  pleasures  away 
from  his  home,  and  grow  more  and  more  indepen- 
dent of  his  wife's  society.  She  will  feel  herself 
neglected,  and  join  that  large  band  of  female  rai- 
lers  who  denounce  matrimony,  and  bemoan  the 
miserable  fate  of  wives  in  general,  and  their  own 
destiny  in  particular.  And  should  she  be  asked 
the  reason  for  this  change  in  her  husband's  senti- 
ments towards  her,  she  would  probably  answer, 
with  the  air  of  an  injured  saint,  that  it  was  all  be- 
cause she  was  "too  good  a  housewife !  " 


THE  FIRST  GRAY  HAIR. 


FEEL  that  I  am  growing  old  for  want 
of  somebody  to  tell  me  that  I  am  looking 
as  young  as  ever.  Charming  falsehood ! 
There  is  a  vast  deal  of  vital  air  in  loving  words." 
This  was  the  passage  that  Millicent  Beauregard 
read  from  Landor.  Her  eyes  wandered  off  the 
volume,  and  a  troubled  look  stole  over  their  Juno- 
like irids.  Her  delicate,  white  hand  was  pressed 
upon  the  open  page,  and  the  faintest  contraction, 
the  merest  soupgon  of  a  frown  shadowed  her  ample 
brow.  Some  chord  of  sympathy  with  the  writer 
was  touched,  and  its  vibration  started  a  train  of 
unwonted  reflections. 

u  Growing  old !  "  when  was  that  sound  musical 
to  the  ears  of  womanhood'?  Millicent  could  not, 
even  by  a  stretch  of  courtesy,  be  called  "  young," 
nor  in  her  "  full  bloom,"  yet  we  have  some  scru- 
ples about  proclaiming  the  exact  date  of  her  birth- 
day. She  had  long  passed  the  season  when  the 
transient  blossoms  of  an  American  woman's  spring- 
time wither,  and  the  briefly  expanded  rose  leaves 
of  her  summer  fall.     Yet  Millicent  possessed  so 

(155) 


156  The  First  Gray  Hair. 

large  a  store  of  internal  freshness  and  buoyancy, 
her  mental  powers  evinced  so  little  decadence,  — 
Time  had  dealt  so  leniently  with  her  face  and  form, 
she  was  so  wonderfully  bien  conserves,  that  the 
inevitable  necessity  of  t;  growing  old,"  and  —  far 
worse  —  of  looking  old,  had  not  intruded  itself 
upon  her  contemplation.  Yet,  even  by  the  poet's 
measurement  of  existence,  which  says : 

"We  live  in  deeds,  not  vears  —  in  thoughts,  not  breaths  — 
In  feelings,  not  in  figures  on  the  dial. 
We  should  count  time  by  heart-throbs.     He  most  lives 
Who  thinks  most,  feels  the  noblest,  acts  the  best  I  " 

And  counting  her  life  by  its  events,  emotions, 
actions,  by  what  she  had  suffered,  enjoyed,  endured, 
achieved,  it  had  not  been  short ;  for  hers  was  not 
one  of  those  empty,  passive,  purposeless  lives  that 
glide  on  from  youth  to  age  without  leaving  land- 
marks on  the  road,  to  warn  or  guide  others  who 
may  pass  that  way. 

"  Growing  old  for  want  of  somebody  to  tell  me 
that  I  am  looking  as  young  as  ever ! "  wrote 
Landor.  ''Looking  as  young  as  ever!"  sighed 
Millicent ;  "  why  that  was  once  a  familiar  greet- 
ing to  my  ears  ;  and  Landor  is  right,  truly :  its 
flattery  was  rejuvenating.  But,  methinks,  no  one 
has  told  me,  of  late,  that  I  am  '  looking  as  young 
as  ever.'  Was  it  a  mere  chance  omission,  or 
am  I " 

She  broke  off  abruptly,  and  stifled  a  half  sigh, 


The  First  Gray  Hair.  157 

that  crushed,  in  its  turn,  a  rising  regret.  What 
said  the  reflecting  truth-teller  yonder'?  She  closed 
the  book,  walked  up  to  the  large  mirror  that  stood 
between  the  windows  of  her  chamber,  and  scanned 
her  own  countenance  with  uncompromising  earn- 
estness, resolved  to  detect  every  footprint  years 
had  left  in  their  journey.  Those  cheeks,  she  re- 
membered when  their  dimpled  fulness  was  suffused 
with  a  soft  auroral  tint.  Now  their  hue  was  that 
of  a  rose  pressed  in  a  book,  their  roundness  was 
gone,  their  dimples  had  deteriorated  into  some- 
thing which  was  a  near  approach  to  wrinkles. 
The  eyes,  they  had  lost  their  brilliancy,  had  sunken 
strangely,  and  what  dark  rings  encircled  them ! 
There  were  lines,  light  but  distinct,  stretching 
across  the  brow,  curving  softly  about  rthe  mouth, 
and  more  sharply  around  the  eyes.  Suddenly  the 
vision  of  the  furrowless  countenance  that  glass 
once  mirrored  rose  before  her.  The  same  visage, 
but  in  its  girlhood,  a  fair,  unwritten  page. 

It  is  not  upon  the  smooth,  blank  scroll  of  stori- 
less  youth  that  we  ever  find  the  highest,  most 
eloquent  loveliness.  As  mind  and  heart  develop 
and  mature,  feelings  and  thoughts  chronicle  their 
histories  upon  the  countenance,  and  give  new  play 
and  more  varied  expression  to  the  features  ;  lines 
of  beauty  may  be  read  that  were  not  visible  before, 
a  past  is  traced  upon  the  face  as  well  as  a  present  ; 

often  a  poem  is  inscribed  there  in  the  most  touch- 
u 


158  The  First  Gray  Hair. 

ing  characters  with  which  poetry  was  ever  re- 
corded. 

But  Millicent  made  no  such  reflection,  she  saw 
what  lustre  her  countenance  had  lost,  not  what 
charms  it  had  gained ;  and  though  she  was  more 
free  from  vanity  than  handsome  women  in  general, 
she  had  womanly  weakness  enough  to  be  shocked 
at  the  sudden  discovery. 

Almost  involuntarily  she  lifted  the  comb  that 
fastened  her  hair ;  it  fell  around  her  in  luxuriant 
masses  of  shining  darkness.  It  had  always  been 
one  of  her  especial  beauties,  praised  by  lovers  and 
sung  by  poets  ;  how  could  she  help  smiling  to  see 
its  length,  abundance,  hue  unchanged?  She  took 
up  the  comb  that  was  lying  temptingly  upon  the 
toilette,  and  drew  it  musingly  through  one  long 
tress  that  swept  over  her  shoulder.  What  glittejs 
so  brightly  from  out  the  glossy  blackness?  A 
single  thread  gleams  whitely  through  the  whole 
length  of  the  lock,  a  thread  of  silver,  yes,  dis- 
tinctly, unmistakably  silver,  a  gray  hair,  the  first 
gray  hair  !  Millicent  drew  it  out  slowly,  thought- 
fully, shall  we  dare  to  say  sadly  1 

Unwelcome  monitor !  It  spoke  of  decay,  of  the 
wearing  out  and  crumbling  to  dust  of  this  mortal 
frame  !  But  that  sorrowful  voice  only  proceeded 
from  the  unillumined  depths  of  this  lower  sphere  ; 
a  more  melodious  tone  sounded  higher  up  and  told 
of  the  exchange  of  that  perishable  form  for  one 
befitting   the    changeless    youth  of   eternity,   and 


The  First  Gray  Hair.  159 

bade  her  remember  that  death  was  but  a  grander 
development  of  life. 

Millicent's  existence  was  affluent  in  blessings, 
she  was  not  weary  of  the  world  in  which  she  had 
filled  a  useful,  happy,  and  honorable  place.  Wind- 
ing the  silver  thread  about  her  finger  she  sank 
into  the  chair  where  she  had  sat  while  reading, 
and  was  soon  lost  in  a  deep  reverie. 

Was  she  indeed  "  growing  old  ? "  Yes,  here 
was  a  gray  hair,  at  last!  Women  ten,  fifteen, 
twenty  years  her  junior,  had  sighed  over  their 
whitening  locks,  while  upon  her  favored  head  no 
winter  had  left  its  trace  of  snow,  here  was  the  first, 
faint  track!  She,  too,  was  "growing  old,"  then! 
Granted!  And,  after  all,  why  should  the  knowl- 
edge cause  her  such  a  pang?  It  was  only  the 
first  spasmodic  shock,  imparted  by  the  recognition 
of  the  fact,  which  it  was  hard  to  bear. 

What  if  age  was  slowly  stealing  upon  her,  had 
not. her  existence  been  enriched  by  the  "honor, 
love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends,"  which  Shaks- 
peare  tells  us  should  be  ours  when  our  "  May  of 
life  falls  into  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf."  Was 
there  not  truth  in  the  words  of  the  philosopher 
who  declared  that  a  woman  of  really  noble  attri- 
butes resembles  a  viol  which  gains  softness  and 
mellowness  of  tone  with  years'?  Had  not  each 
year,  that  stole  a  portion  of  her  youth  away,  left 
some  more  valuable  gift  in  its  place  ? 

Was  there  not  a  vast  store  of  precious  images 


160  The  First  Gray  Hair. 

garnered  up  in  the  treasury  of  her  heart?  Had 
she  not  found  pleasure  in  pondering  upon  their 
beauty  ?  Did  she  not  delight  in  dreaming  over  the 
past,  which  memory  always  chronicled  in  poetry  ? 
Did  she  not  find  profit  in  looking  back  upon  the 
steps  she  had  taken,  and  in  noting  whither  each 
one  led,  and  thus  in  recounting  to  herself  (haply, 
now  and  then,  to  others)  the  story  of  her  own  life? 

Was  it  not  a  happiness  to  have  watched  the 
working  out  of  the  great  ends  which  sprung  from 
causes  that  once  appeared  to  her  so  mysterious? 
to  have  seen  the  completed  painting  of  pictures 
which  she  never  imagined  could  grow  out  of  those 
tints  on  the  palette  of  life  ?  to  have  beheld  the 
perfected  embroidery  on  the  tapestry  of  existence, 
over  which  she  had  marvelled  during  its  incom- 
pletion,  never  divining  from  the  groundwork  of 
inharmonious  threads,  what  noble  design  could  be 
wrought? 

And,  heart-warming  reflection !  with  every  year 
had  not  her  sphere  of  love  grown  wider  ?  Had  not 
her  affections  radiated  further  out  from  herself? 
Had  not  her  interests  in  others  been  more  extended 
and  more  hopeful?  Then  too,  had  she  not  more  ties 
in  that  better  land  to  which  many  of  her  beloved 
ones  had  led  the  way,  ties  that  linked  her  to  that 
world  as  the  loved  who  remained  attached  her  to 
this,  until  she  felt  that  she  had  a  home  in  both, 
and  dear  ones  awaited  her  there  as  here  ! 

Next  came  the  startling  query,  which  all  shall  be 


The  First  Gray  Hair.  161 

asked  ;  "  What  use  hast  thou  made  of  thy  time  %  " 
Millicent  pondered  upon  the  work  she  had  been 
made  an  instrument  to  accomplish ;  she  was  not 
content  with  its  amount,  though  others  might  have 
deemed  it  large.  She  sighed  over  her  own  insuffi- 
ciency, over  the  good  she  might  have  done  which 
she  had  left  undone,  over  precious  hours  wasted 
and  golden  opportunities  neglected.  And  now 
she  was  "  growing  old  !  "  "  Growing  old !  "  What 
then  ]  Age  ought  to  bring  wisdom  that  would  teach 
her  soul  larger  movements,  and  give  it  more  glori- 
ous fruition.  There  was  time  for  nobler  toil  ere 
God  measured  the  task.     That  would  not  be, 

Until  the  day's  out,  and  the  labor  done ! 

If  Millicent  could  have  seen  the  expression  of 
her  own  face,  sublimed  by  holy  aspiration,  she 
would  have  known  that  there  was  an  imperishable 
beauty  which  takes  the  place  of  the  soft  bloom, 
the  brilliant  tints,  the  smoothness  and  roundness 
which  time  destroys  ;  a  beauty  that  will  clothe  the 
spirit  with  eternal  youth  in  the  life  to  come. 

Millicent  still  sat  thoughtfully  winding  the  long, 
shining  hair  about  her  finger,  and  smiling  at  the 
passing  dread  that  had  seized  her,  at  the  startling 
discovery  that  she  might  be  ci  growing  old." 

"  Why,  what  an  idle  bugbear,"  she  exclaimed, 
"  we  make  of  years !  With  what  silly  horror  we 
shrink  from  the  thought  of  blanched  locks  !  If  they 
are  only  white  records  of  white  deeds,  the  '  silver 

14* 


162  The  First  Gray  Hair. 

crown  of  age '  should  be  deemed  more  beautiful 
than  '  the  golden  circlet  of  youth/  True,  Vanity 
cries  out  against  gray  hair,  but  that  is  simply  be- 
cause she  is  ignorant.  Nature  (from  whom  art 
learnt  all  her  beautifying  secrets)  sent  the  snowy 
frame  to  soften  faces  which  have  been  despoiled  of 
their  fresh  coloring,  and  to  render  their  losses  less 
apparent.  We  have  heard  Landor's  groan  over 
'  growing  old,'  but  if  I  mistake  not,  there  is  a  more 
consolatory  voice  breathing  from  some  healthier 
pages  at  hand." 

She  approached  a  small  hanging  library,  filled 
with  choice  volumes,  her  favorite  text  books, 
selected  Hillard's  "  Italy,"  and,  after  a  rapid  turn- 
ing over  of  leaves,  redolent  with  the  fragrant 
memories  of  that  "land  of  the  sun,"  read  aloud 
"  growing  old  seems  to  depend  much  upon  the 
temperament,  and  somewhat  upon  the  will.  With 
an  active  mind  and  warm  heart  all  that  is  dark  and 
unlovely  in  age  may  be  kept  off  very  long,  if  not 
to  the  end." 

"To  the  end  —  ay  —  to  the  end  —  so  shall  it 
be!"  responded  Millicent,  replacing  the  volume, 
while  an  expression  of  serene  satisfaction  played 
over  her  fine  features,  a  look  which  strongly  con- 
trasted with  the  troubled  shadow  that  obscured 
their  beauty  when  that  wail  of  Landor's  set  her 
musing. 


CHARADES, 


HE  amusement  of  acting  charades  has  long 
been  popular  in  Europe,  and  is  becoming 
more  and  more  in  vogue  among  young 
people  in  this  country.  The  dialogue  is  sometimes 
improvised,  but,  when  it  is  written  and  committed 
to  memory,  the  performance  is  much  smoother  and 
more  entertaining.  Each  syllable  of  the  word, 
chosen  to  be  divined,  should  compose  the  subject 
of  one  scene,  and  the  whole  word  the  subject  of  the 
closing  scene. 

The  answer  to  the  following  charade,  written  for 
some  young  friends  who  delight  in  these  evening 
games,  is  a  word  of  three  syllables. 

ACTING  CHARADE  —  IN  FOUR  SCENES. 

SCENE  I  —  (FIRST  SYLLABLE.) 

Madam  Dishuplivre,      .     .     .     .    A  travelling  authoress. 

PenPoint, Her  Secretary. 

Bessie  Blooming, A  chambermaid. 

Scene  —  Hotel  on  Long  Island. 

(Enter  Bessie,  ushering  in  Madam  Dishuplivre,  followed  by  Penpoint. 
Madam  D.  is  attired  in  a  fantastic  travelling-dress.     Penpoint  os- 
tentatiously carries  open  tablets  of  an  extraordinary  size. 
(163) 


164  Charades. 

Bessie.  Best  hotel  on  the  Island,  Marm,  —  every 
recommendation  one  can  desire.  Take  a  seat,  do 
take  a  seat,  Marm,  and  make  yourself  at  home. 
Delighted  to  wait  on  you. 

Madam  Dishuplivre.  —  What  intolerable  forward- 
ness !  Why,  the  girl  has  quite  an  air  of  equality  ! 
But  I  suppose  similar  specimens  are  scattered  over 
this  American  hemisphere  by  way  of  placards  to 
show  that  it's  a  "  land  of  liberty."  Liberties  enough 
they  take,  I  perceive.  u  Best  hotel  on  the  Island  ? " 
Hotel !  It's  a  positive  profanation  of  the  word. 
Oh  !  the  horrors  of  travelling  ;  that  plus  triste  des 
amusemens,  as  Madame  de  St'ael  calls  it.  But  hor- 
rors pay,  that's  one  consolation ;  they  make  one's 
book  sell.  Surely  no  one  would  have  the  courage 
to  contemplate  travelling  in  America,  but  for  the 
sake  of  writing  a  book.  Penpoint,  write  that  I 
was  strongly  urged  by  a  barmaid,  in  a  hotel  of  the 
highest  standing,  to  take  a  seat  and  make  myself 
at  home. 

Penpoint  (writing.)  —  Yes,  Madam  and  would  it 
not  be  well  to  add  that  she  sat  down  first  in  the 
hope  of  putting  you  at  your  ease,  by  setting  the 
example  1  A  little  innocent  coloring,  you  know, 
is  necessary  to  give  brilliancy  to  the  picture. 

Madam  D.  —  Excellent!  Penpoint,  excellent! 
You  are  an  invaluable  scribe.  But  this  keen  sea 
breeze  has  had  quite  an  awakening  effect  upon  my 
appetite.  What  have  you  got  in  the  house,  child, 
that  can  be  quickly  served  up  \ 


Charades.  165 

Bessie.  —  A  power  of  good  things,  Marm.  It's 
mighty  fortunate  the  clam  man's  just  been  by,  and 
left  some  whopping  clams,  and  fine,  fat  eels ;  first- 
rate  eels  ! 

Madam  I).  —  Eels  ?  Eels  ?  Slimy,  squirming 
eels?  I  writhe  at  the  thought!  I  am  mentally 
skinned  !  Penpoint,  write  that  in  the  first  Ameri- 
can hotels,  no  food  can  be  procured  but  eels,  twirl- 
ing, writhing  eels  ! 

Penpoint  (writing). —  Nothing  —  but  —  live  eels  — 
for  — food.  Shall  I  not  make  some  distant  allu- 
sion to  snakes  at  the  same  time  ?  I  hear  there  are 
plenty  of  garter-snakes  hereabouts.  I've  no  doubt 
some  of  the  eels  will  prove  cooked-up  snakes. 
Shan't  I  add  snakes  ?  They  are  a  decided  improve- 
ment upon  eels. 

Madam  D. — By  all  means.  I  am  perfectly 
certain  that  snakes  will  be  offered  to  us. 

Bessie.  —  What  rooms  do  you  want,  Marm  ? 
Missus  is  very  flustered,  helping  with  dinner  at 
this  hour,  but  I'll  take  your  orders.  You  can  have 
all  the  conveniences  in  the  world  here.  Nothing 
to  equal  them,  no,  not  for  forty  miles  round  ! 

Madam  D.  —  Don't  talk  so  fast,  child,  you  stun 
me  with  your  clatter.  Penpoint,  write  that  all 
American  women  speak  with  the  rapidity  of  steam- 
locomotives.     (Penpoint  writes.) 

Bessie  (aside).  —  Speak  so  fast,  indeed  !  As  if  a 
body  can't  speak  to  suit  one's-self !  But  I  suppose 
they've  never  been  in  these  parts  before,  and  don't 


166  Charades. 

know  no  better.  I'll  excuse  them.  It's  no  use 
being  spiteful  with  ignorance. 

Madam  D.  —  Let  me  have  a  private  parlor  imme- 
diately. 

Bessie.  —  Private  parlor  1  Well  I  guess  our 
parlor's  private  enough  for  any  one,  any  how.  We 
haint  got  but  one  parlor,  but  that's  respectable  and 
private  enough,  as  you  calls  it,  I  should  say.  It's 
mighty  nice,  I  can  tell  you.  It's  got  first-rate 
horse-hair  furniture,  and  a  picture  of  Washington 
and  his  family  on  the  walls.  All  the  folks  that 
comes  down  here,  goes  into  that  parlor,  for  we 
haint  got  no  other,  so  it's  private  enough  for  them 
all ;  just  the  thing  to  suit  you,  Marm. 

Madam  D.  —  What  a  barbarous  place!  Posi- 
tively the  child  don't  know  what  a  private  parlor 
means  !  I  must  sit  in  a  public  room  to  be  stared  at 
by  the  whole  world  !  And  that's  the  custom.  I 
suppose  the  women  in  this  country  have  no  sense 
of  modesty  and  no  idea  of  retirement. 

Penpoint.  —  111  make  a  note  of  that,  Marm. 
Shall  I  not  add  that  bed-rooms  are  generally  let  to 
three  families  at  once  ? 

Madam  D.  —  Certainly  !  No  doubt  it's  the  fact. 
What  bed-rooms  have  you  got,  child  ? 

Bessie.  —  First-rate  bed-rooms,  Marm.  There's 
the  President's  room,  that's  our  best  bed-room. 
You  see  we  call  it  the  President's  room,  because 
President  Tyler  slept  there  once,  his  own  self !  I 
assure  you  he  did,  Marm.     It  was  years  ago,  long 


Charades.  167 

before  he  came  to  be  President,  but  he  got  to  be 
President  afterwards  ;  so  it's  the  President's  room 
all  the  same.  I'm  sure  you'll  feel  proud  of  sleep- 
ing there.  I  heard  grandmother  say  she  remem- 
bered very  well  he  got  an  awful  rheumatism  be- 
cause the  walls  had  cracks,  and  the  windows  are  so 
loose,  so  there's  no  mistake  about  his  sleeping  there  ! 
You  can  see  the  self-same  cracks  yet,  plain  as  day- 
light. 

Madame  D. — Here's  a  recommendation,  to  be 
sure  !  Put  down  every  word,  Penpoint.  Here's 
interesting  matter  indeed !  Ah  !  Penpoint,  this 
country  will  be  the  death  of  me  !  I  shall  not 
survive,  as  that  embryo  president  did  !  You  will 
take  back  my  last  sighs  to  England,  and  bear  wit- 
ness that  it  was  for  her  beloved  sake,  it  was  to 
enlighten  her,  that  I  plunged  into  the  darkness  of 
these  caverns  of  ignorance,  and  undertook  the 
pilgrimage  through  which  1  became  a  martyr ! 

Penpoint  —  (aside.)  —  Illuminating  candles,  for 
which  the  English  reading  public  are  expected  to 
pay  handsomely ! 

Bessie.  —  AYhat  odd  folks!  I  never  saw  their 
like  before  !  From  their  talk  I  should  think  they'd 
come  out  of  the  woods,  and  didn't  know  nothing  of 
decent  society.  I'm  sure  I  can't  understand  half 
they  say,  so  they  must  have  come  from  quite  far  in 
the  backwoods.  If  you  please,  Marm,  111  show 
you  the  President's  room  ;  first-rate  room,  and  you'll 
find  this  in  all  respects  the  best  hotel  on  the  Island. 


168  Charades. 

Madam  D.  —  Hotel !  I'm  in  despair  !  But  it 
must  be  endured  for  the  sake  of  the  book.  Go  on, 
child  !     Lead  the  way  to  your  cave  of  iEolus  ! 

(Exeunt  omnes.) 


Scene  II.  —  (Second  Syllable.) 
(Enter  Bessie  with  dusting-brush.     She  dusts  the  furniture  very  busily.) 

Bessie. —  Well,  it's  work  enough  I  have  in  this 
house,  and  the  old  dragon  that  keeps  it  is  always 
telling  me  it's  good  for  young  bones  to  run  about ! 
It's  injurious  to  old  ones  in  consequence,  I  suppose, 
since  she's  so  fond  of  just  doing  nothing  but  sit  still 
and  gossip.  I  forgot  about  dusting  this  room,  and 
if  she  finds  it  out,  she'll  have  so  much  to  say  that  I 
shall  feel  as  choked  as  if  all  the  dust  in  the  room 
were  in  my  throat. 

(Enter  Penpoint.) 

Penpoint.  —  Good  morning,  my  little  Gothic 
Venus ! 

Bessie.  —  Good  morning,  sir.  I  don't  understand 
no  outlandish  languages,  sir.  If  you'd  say  all 
your  words  in  English,  I'd  know  what  you  meant. 

Penpoint.  — What  ravishing  simplicity  !  WThat's 
your  name,  child  ] 

Bessie.  —  My  name's  Bessie  Blooming,  and  I 
aint  been  a  child  for  ever  so  many  years. 

Benpoint.  —  Lovely  unsophistication  !  And  what 
are  you  doing  here,  blooming  Bessie,  and  Bessie 
Blooming  1 

Bessie.  —  I'm  dusting,  sir,  (swinging  her  brush 


Charades.  169 

very  near  him,)  and  a- trying  to  get  all  the  trouble- 
some things  a-floating  about  out  of  the  room,  sir. 

Penpoint.  —  Take  care  Bessie,  pretty  Bessie, 
take  care  of  my  eyes. 

Bessie.  —  Please  take  care  of  them,  your  own 
self,  sir.  They're  in  harm's  way  here,  sir,  (still 
swinging  her  brush.) 

Penpoint  —  So  they  are,  indeed  !  And  when 
Harm  carries  the  weapon  of  a  dusting  brush,  it's 
dangerous,  I  acknowledge.  The  eyes  are  looking- 
after  you,  pretty  Bessie. 

Bessie.  —  Thank  them  kindly,  sir;  but  there's 
plenty  to  look  after  me  ;  more  than  I  want,  anyhow. 
Missus  is  looking  after  me  every  few  minutes,  and 
Master  comes  plaguing  me,  and  he  says  he's  only 
looking  after  me,  and  1  can't  bear  to  be  looked 
after.  So,  sir,  if  you  please  to  leave  me  to  my  dust- 
ing, I'd  much  prefer  it  to  being  looked  after. 

Penpoint  (aside.)  —  Really,  the  child  has  wit ;  an 
unexpected  article  in  America  ;  I'm  quite  charmed 
with  her.     How  old  did  you  say  you  were,  Bessie  ? 

Bessie.  —  Old  enough  to  know  better  than  to  tell 
my  age,  sir. 

Penpoint.  — Ah,  you  have  arrived  at  those  years 
of  discretion !  You've  a  very  pretty  hand,  bloom- 
ing Bessie. 

Bessie  (curtsying).  —  Yes,  sir  I  heard  grand- 
mother say  so  once,  when  she  saw  me  box  cousin 
Ned's  ears  for  his  sauciness.  I  beg  you  won't  put 
my  name  hind  part  first,  sir,  and  — 

15 


1 70  Charades. 

(  Voice  behind  the  scenes.)  —  Where's  that  Bessie  1 
Where's  that  lazy  girl  ? 

Bessie.  —  Oh,  law  !  there's  Missus.  She'll  kick 
up  a  dust  if  she  finds  me  here  with  you.  I'll  be  off 
and  leave  the  field  to  the  enemy,  as  old  Jack,  the 
lame  soldier,  says. 

(Exit,  running,  Penpoint  follows.) 

Scene  III.  —  (Third  Syllable.) 
Enter  Liza  and  Miss  Haughtbn.     Liza  rustically  dressed,  a  broad  fiat 
on  her  head,  and  a  bashet  on  her  arm.     Miss  Houghton  attired  in 
the  height  of  fashion,  wearing  a  demitrain,  and  carrying  an  exceed- 
ingly small  parasol. 

Liza.  —  I'm  glad  you're  ready  at  last,  Miss 
Haughton.  I've  been  waiting  full  two  hours  to 
hear  that  you  were  dressed.  I  didn't  expect  you 
were  going  to  make  such  a  dashing  turn-out.  All 
your  fine  clothes  will  be  ruined  in  our  country  roads, 
and  there'll  be  nobody  to  see  you  but  the  peacocks, 
who'll  die  with  envy,  perhaps.  There  will  be  a 
new  flounce  upon  your  trailing  skirt,  but  it  will  be 
a  mud  flounce.  The  sun  is  up  so  high  I'm  afraid 
you'll  find  it  a  warm  walk  after  the  wild  flowers 
you  want  to  gather.     It's  grown  quite  late. 

Miss  H.  —  You  don't  call  this  late  ?  I  don't  be- 
lieve I  was  ever  up  so  early  in  my  life  before.  Why, 
it's  hardly  nine  o'clock. 

Liza.  —  But  the  sun  rises  at  five,  and  the  flowers 
are  sweetest  while  the  dew  is  upon  them.  Now  I 
don't  believe  you  ever  saw  the  sun  rise  in  your  life. 
It's  the  most  glorious  sight  in  the  world. 


Charades.  171 

Miss  H.  —  You're  much  mistaken.  I've  often 
seen  it  rise  before  I  went  to  bed  at  all ;  but  I  was 
too  sleepy  to  notice  the  especial  beauty  of  the  exhi- 
bition ;  one  gets  very  tired  after  a  ball. 

Liza.  —  I  suppose  you  never  lived  long  in  the 
country. 

3iiss  H.  —  Lived  there  X  I  should  die  there  if  I 
made  the  attempt.  This  is  the  first  time  that  I've 
passed  four-and-twenty  hours  out  of  the  city  and  I 
begin  to  get  weary  already  ;  it's  dreadfully  dull. 

Liza.  —  Then  I  suppose  you  don't  know  any- 
thing about  the  country.  I  wonder  if  you'd  know 
a  cherry-tree  from  a  pear-tree,  if  they  were  in  blos- 
som? 

Miss  H.  —  Possibly  not. 

Liza.  —  You're  not  in  earnest  I  Are  you,  really  ? 
You  make  me  laugh.  Wouldn't- you  really  know 
a  cherry-tree  in  bloom  ] 

Miss  H.  —  I  presume  I  know  as  much  of  these 
unimportant  distinctions  as  most  town-bred  young 
ladies,  and  quite  as  much  as  is  necessary. 

Liza.  —  Don't  be  provoked,  Miss  Haughton,  but 
indeed  it's  very  funny.  I  half -believe  you're  joking. 
Do  you  really  know  nothing  at  all  about  those  beau- 
tiful trees  out  yonder,  nothing  at  all  1  Nor  about 
the  flowers,  or  the  lovely  harvest-fields  %  Please, 
look  out  of  that  window.  Tell  me  if  you  know 
what's  growing  in  that  field. 

Miss  H.  —  Of  course  I  know  what  that  is,  well 
enough.     I  had  my  best  bonnet  trimmed  with  wheat 


1 72  Charades. 

last  year ;  it  was  all  the  fashion ;  and  really  the 
artificial  wheat  was  very  superior  in  appearance  to 
the  natural. 

Liza.  —  Why,  so  it  is  wheat,  to  be  sure.  But 
what's  that  in  the  next  field  ? 

Miss  H.  —  Really  you  amuse  yourself  by  asking 
the  most  absurd  questions ;  that's  grass,  of  course. 

Liza  (laughing).  —  Grass  1  Grass  ?  You  call 
that  grass  ?  Don't  be  angry,  Miss  Haughton,  but  I 
really  can't  help  laughing.  To  call  rye  grass ! 
You  actually  don't  know  a  field  of  rye  when  you  see 
it !  But  let's  set  out  for  our  walk.  I  fancy  that  I 
shall  have  the  pleasure  of  teaching  you  a  great 
many  things  by  the  way.  Grass  indeed !  Oh, 
that's  too  funny  ! 

(Exit,  laughing,  Miss  Haughton  follows.) 
Scene  IV.  —  (Whole  Word.) 

Rachel,  j> 

T  >  Orphan  sisters. 

Linda,     C  r 

Rosa,  Daughter  of  landlady. 

Hubert. 

Linda  is  lying  upon  a  couch  in  a  loose  white  wrapper,  a  morning-cap 

on  her  head.     At  the  foot  of  the  bed  Iiachel  is  sitting  before  a  small 

desk,  jointing.     She  is  very  plainly  dressed,  in  sombre  colors.) 

Linda.  —  Are  you  not  weary,  Rachel?  You  are 
always  working,  while  I  can  only  look  at  you  and 
wish  that  prayers  and  blessings  could  lighten  your 
toil. 

Rachel.  —  No,  dear  Linda,  I  am  seldom  weary. 
I  am  fond  of  painting,  and  long  habit  renders 
constant  occupation  almost  necessary  to  my  com- 


Charades.  173 

fort ;  I  have  no  time  for  regrets  and  sinful  murmurs 
while  I  am  busy.  And  you  do  help  me  and  make 
my  labors  lighter  when  you  smile  on  them. 

Linda. — You  have  sacrificed  your  hopes,  your 
happiness,  your  prospects  in  life,  to  toil  for  me, 
and  how  shall  I  ever  repay  you  ? 

Rachel.  —  By  being  contented  and  cheerful,  by 
forgetting  the  past,  by  bearing  your  sufferings  pa- 
tiently, by  believing  that  they  would  not  be  per- 
mitted by  Divine  Providence  unless  they  were  good 
for  you,  and  by  trying  to  be  less  sad ;  that  will  be 
ample  reward  for  me. 

Linda.  —  Ah,  you  are  sad  at  heart,  yourself, 
Rachel,  though  you  conceal  it  so  well.  Sometimes, 
when  I  wake  suddenly,  I  see  the  big  tears  stealing 
down  your  pale  cheeks ;  and  though  you  soon 
smile  again  when  you  find  me  watching  you,  I 
never  hear  you  laugh  now.  And  you  had  such  a 
merry  laugh  once  !  Hubert  used  to  call  it  the 
chime  of  silver  bells.  Dear  Hubert!  I  wonder 
where  he  is  now. 

Rachel.  —  Linda,  sister,  do  not  talk  of  him.  I 
can  bear  all  things  but  the  remembrance  of  by- 
gone days  and  to  hear  you  speak  of  Hubert. 

Linda.  —  Only  answer  me  one  question,  and  I 
will  never  mention  his  name.  I  do  not  ask  why 
you  parted,  but  tell  me  if  there  is  no  hope  that  you 
will  ever  meet  again. 

Rachel.  — None,  not  the  faintest ;  let  that  suffice. 
The  stern  hand  of  Circumstance,  the  commanding 

15* 


174  Charades. 

voice  of  Duty,  parted  us.  If  you  would  not  make 
my  heart  bleed  afresh,  if  you  would  not  destroy 
the  courage  that  sustains  me,  do  not  name  Hubert 
again. 

Linda.  —  Forgive  me,  I  will  not.  What  are 
you  painting  now  ? 

Rachel.  —  The  figure  of  Charity,  in  the  garb  of 
a  nun,  succoring  a  poor  widow. 

Linda.  —  I  am  afraid  I  shall  never  like  any  of 
your  pictures  as  well  as  the  last,  in  which  you 
painted  me  lying  upon  this  couch  and  yourself 
beside  me,  as  you  ever  are,  and  the  angel  of  Hope 
hovering  over  our  heads,  and  pointing  to  the  rain- 
bow which  shone  through  the  open  casement.  I 
should  like  to  see  that  picture  again.  Has  it  gone 
yet? 

Rachel.  —  I  sent  it  away  last  night.  But  I  hear 
that  my  head  of  Jupiter  has  not  been  sold  yet, 
and  you  are  sadly  in  need  of  the  comforts  which  I 
thought  its  sale  would  procure.  Besides,  our  kind 
landlady's  rent  for  this  room  is  just  due,  and  she 
will  need  the  money,  for  she  is  almost  as  poor  as 
we  are.  You  look  tired  ;  try  to  sleep.  I  am  work- 
ing upon  a  critical  part  of  the  picture,  and  ought 
tp  give  it  my  whole  attention. 

Linda.  —  I  am  tired.  I  will  try  to  sleep  awhile. 
Do  wake  me  if  you  feel  lonely. 

(Composes  herself  to  sleep.     A  short  interval,  during  which  Rachel 
paints  industriously.      Enter  Rosa.) 

Rosa.  —  Rachel !  dear  Rachel !  ah,  you  are  al- 


Charades.  1 75 

ways  so  busy !  It's  so  tiresome,  that  you've  time 
for  nothing  but  work,  work,  work ! 

Rachel.  —  Hush  !  Linda  sleeps ;  do  not  rouse 
her. 

Rosa.  —  Is  she  better  to-day  1  Mother  requested 
me  to  ask  if  she  could  do  anything  for  her. 

Rachel.  —  Has  she  not  done  enough  in  receiving 
homeless  orphans,  penniless  strangers,  beneath  her 
roof? 

Rosa.  —  She  never  thinks  about  that.  Do  stop 
painting  for  a  few  moments,  Kachel.  Your  fingers 
are  the  nearest  approach  to  perpetual  motion  that 
I  ever  saw.  Do  talk  awhile  ;  you'll  find  talking 
very  refreshing,  I  always  do. 

Rachel.  —  If  I  were  a  poet  now,  I  might  paint 
with  my  breath ;  but  as  I  am  not,  I  must  use  my 
fingers,  for  I  have  no  time  to  spare. 

Rosa.  —  Did  you  not  promise  to  tell  me  some 
day  how  you  came  to  be  poor,  and  why  you  are  so 
sad  ?  Tell  me  now  ;  (seating  herself  upon  a  low 
stool  at  her  feet,)  I  feel  just  in  the  mood  to  listen. 
Tell  me,  too,  about  that  Hubert  of  whom  Linda 
talks  so  often. 

Rachel.  —  I  will  keep  my  promise,  Eosa  ;  though 
keeping  it  may  give  me  too  much  pain  to  afford 
you  pleasure.  The  story  is  an  every-day  one,  and 
I  will  make  it  as  short  as  possible.  My  father  was 
a  wealthy  London  merchant.  My  sister  and  I  were 
his  only  children.  Our  mother  died  when  we  were 
very  young.     Six  years  ago,  when  Linda  was  just 


176  Charades. 

twelve,  she  was  attacked  by  a  disease  of  the  spine. 
At  that  time  we  lived  in  great  splendor.  When  I 
entered  society,  I  soon  had  many,  so-called,  ad- 
mirers ;  my  father's  reputation  for  wealth  ensured 
me  those.  I  rejected  suitors  whose  prospects  were 
far  more  certain  than  my  father's.  Perhaps,  Rosa, 
you  can  divine  the  reason  ? 

Rosa.  —  Of  course  I  can,  you  loved  somebody 
else,  and  that  somebody  else  was  Hubert. 

Rachel.  — And  Hubert  loved  me  with  all  the  de- 
votion of  which  only  a  noble,  unselfish  heart  is 
capable.  He  was  poor,  he  had  not  yet  found  an 
advantageous  opportunity  of  engaging  in  business. 
My  father  objected  to  our  marriage,  that  was  nat- 
ural enough.  Yet  after  a  time  he  could  not  resist 
my  supplications,  and  I  was  betrothed  to  Hubert. 
How  I  gloried  in  the  thought  that  he  would  be  en- 
riched by  me  !  But  he  never  intended  that  should 
be  the  case,  and  diligently  sought  some  remunera- 
tive occupation.  Our  days  of  happiness  were  few. 
My  father's  affairs  became  entangled,  his  health 
gave  way,  in  a  few  months  he  was  a  bankrupt. 

Rosa.  —  And  Hubert  ? 

Rachel.  —  His  devotion  only  increased.  He  fol- 
lowed us  to  the  humble  retreat  where  we  had  hid- 
den ourselves,  he  implored  me  to  fulfil  my  prom- 
ise and  become  his  wife,  that  he  might  share  with 
me  the  scared  duty  of  ministering  to  my  broken- 
hearted father  and  invalid  sister.  I  resolutely  re- 
fused.    I   would   not   fasten   a  burden  upon   his 


Charades,  177 

young,  untried  shoulders,  which  must  weigh  him  to 
the  earth.  His  entreaties  were  all  in  vain.  There 
was  no  hope  of  a  brighter  future  for  me,  and  I 
would  not  darken  coming  years  to  him.  He  begged 
that,  for  three  years  at  least,  I  would  consider  the 
tie  between  us  still  binding.  I  would  not  even 
consent  to  that.  We  parted,  I  laid  down  love  upon 
the  altar  of  Duty,  as  thousands  have  done  before, 
thousands  will  do  again  !  My  father's  proud  heart 
could  not  bear  the  sight  of  his  children  reduced  to 
penury  ;  he  never  recovered  from  the  blow  ;  in  a 
few  months  we  were  orphans,  and  without  the  means 
of  support.  I  always  had  a  taste  for  painting,  and 
fortunately  it  had  been  highly  cultivated.  I  off- 
ered my  work  for  sale  and  found  purchasers  who 
gave  a  trifling  compensation,  barely  enough  to  sup- 
ply us  with  bread,  for  the  labor  of  many  days. 
We  were  forced  to  reduce  our  expenses  as  much 
as  possible.  An  apparent  chance,  as  you  know, 
made  us  acquainted  with  your  kind  mother,  who 
gave  us  this  hospitable  shelter  for  a  sum  much 
smaller,  I  fear,  than  she  can  afford. 

Rosa.  —  And  you  never  saw,  never  heard  from 
Hubert  again  ] 

Rachel.  —  Never !  I,  myself  forbade  him  to 
write,  and  gave  him  no  address.  Four  years  have 
rolled  away,  he  is  dead,  perhaps,  or  married,  mar- 
ried to  one  who  loves  him,  one  whose  face  has 
banished  the  image  of  Each  el  from  his  heart. 

Rosa.  —  I  will  not  believe  that.     I  am  sure  he 


178  Charades. 

could  never  marry  another  after  loving  you,  But, 
Rachel,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  the  picture  of 
Linda  and  yourself,  with  Hope  flying  over  your 
heads,  has  been  so  much  admired  !  I  went  this 
morning  to  Mr.  Semple's  in  Regent  Street  to  see  if 
it  was  sold,  and  Mr.  Semple  said  that  a  young  gen- 
tleman who  saw  it  declared  it  was  the  most  beau- 
tiful thing  he  had  seen  for  a  long  while  !  But,  ah  ! 
he  didn't  buy  it  right  straight  off,  as  I  think  he 
should  have  done.  He  wanted  first  to  know  the 
name  and  address  of  the  person  who  painted  it. 
Mr.  Semple  would  not  give  it  without  your  per- 
mission, so  he  sent  me  to  ask  you. 

Rachel.  —  I  hope  the  picture  may  bring  a  fair 
price  for  Linda's  sake !  Besides,  I  feel  that  it  is 
my  chef-d'oeuvre.  I  can  do  nothing  better  than  that, 
my  heart  guided  my  fingers. 

Rosa.  —  But  may  I  give  Mr.  Semple  your  ad- 
dress ? 

Rachel.  —  Why  should  he  want  it  ? 

Rosa.  —  Have  you  been  dreaming  all  this  time  ? 
Why,  for  the  gentleman  who  admired  the  picture 
so  much.  Perhaps  he  wants  to  engage  you  to 
paint  another.  I  promised  to  be  back  by  twelve 
o'clock  and  let  him  know. 

Rachel.  —  It's  just  twelve.  Give  my  address,  of 
course.  I  would  rather  remain  unknown,  but  I 
must  not  consult  my  own  pleasure  and  convenience, 
when  daily  bread  for  that  dear  one  is  to  be  earned. 
But  I  have  been  idling  away  precious  moments  I, 
must  go  to  my  Charity. 


Charades.  179 

Rosa.  —  I  wish  Charity  would  come  to  you  in- 
stead. But  I  must  run  and  let  Mr.  Semple  know 
—  it  is  only  a  step  — just  round  the  corner. 

(Exit.) 

Rachel.  —  How  light-hearted  she  seems  !  And 
once  I  was  as  joyous,  but  I  must  not  think  of  that. 
I  should  not  be  what  I  am,  unless  it  were  the  will 
of  God,  and  unless  it  were  good  for  me  to  be  thus. 
I  repeat  that  great  truth  over  and  over  again  every 
day,  every  hour,  that  its  remembrance  may  give  me 
patience  and  courage. 

Linda  (waking.)  —  Are  you  there,  sister  ?  I 
have  had  the  sweetest  dream.  I  thought  I  was 
talking  to  Hubert. 

Rachel  —  Then  you  have  slept  well  \ 

Linda.  —  Very  sweetly  —  and  you  have  been 
working  all  the  time  ] 

Rachel. — No,  indeed,  I  have  been  shamefully 
idle.  I  have  been  gossiping  with  Rosa.  Here  she 
comes  again. 

(Enter  Rosa,  running.) 

Rosa. — Rachel!  Rachel!  dear  Rachel!  I  have 
such  joyful  news  !  The  gentleman  has  bought  the 
picture  !  I  saw  him,  and  he  asked  me  about  you 
and  Linda.  He  knew  your  names  and  he  cried 
like  a  child,  when  he  was  looking  at  the  picture 
and  listening  to  my  talk  !  oh,  he  did  ! 

Rachel.  —  He  knew  our  names,  Rosa. 

Rosa.  — Indeed  he  did  —  right  well. 

Linda.  —  It  was  Hubert !     I  know  it  was  Hu- 


180  Charades. 

bert !  Had  he  dark  hair,  Rosa,  and  clear,  blue 
eyes,  and  was  he  tall  and  manly? 

Rosa. — Yes,  his  hair  was  dark,  and  his  eyes 
were  blue ;  I  noticed  them  as  they  were  swimming 
in  tears.     He  was  very  thin  and  very  pale. 

Rachel.  —  Can  it  really  be  he?  If  so,  where 
shall  I  fly  I     I  cannot  see  him. 

Rosa.  —  But  Rachel,  he  is  coming  here  directly. 

Rachel.  —  I  cannot  see  him  —  it  is  impossible  ! 
Hasten,  Rosa,  and  tell  him  we  must  not  meet. 

Linda.  —  Do  not  say  that — let  me,  at  least,  see 
Hubert  once  more  —  it  will  make  me  quite  well 
again. 

(  Enter  Hubert.) 

Hubert.  —  Rachel ! 

(Eacliel  gives  him  an  imploring  glance,  and  retreats  from  Mm.) 

Rachel. — You  should  have  spared  me  this, 
Hubert.  If  you  hope  to  have  me  ever  regain  that 
serenity  and  peace  of  mind  which  I  have  lost, 
leave  me  —  leave  me  —  I  implore  you  ! 

Hubert.  —  Rather  let  me  never  leave  you  more. 
I  have  happy  news,  Rachel.  Do  not  refuse  to  look 
upon  me  when  I  tell  you  that,  if  your  affection  is 
unchanged,  we  part  no  more. 

Rachel.  —  Hubert  — 

Hubert.  —  Tell  me  only  that  you  ha\5e  not 
changed. 

Rachel.  —  Can  you  ask  1 

Hubert.  —  Then   all   is   well.     When  I   parted 


Charades.  181 

from  you,  Rachel, '  I  determined  not  to  despair 
while  health  and  strength  were  left  me.  Through 
the  advice  of  friends  I  went  to  the  East  Indies. 
It  would  take  me  long  to  recount  all  that  oc- 
curred during  my  sojourn  there.  I  trust  it  may 
be  the  theme  of  many  a  fireside-talk.  In  four 
years  I  returned  independent — rich.  I  sought 
you  at  your  former  home,  but  strange  faces  met 
me,  and  I  could  get  no  tidings  of  you.  Day  and 
night  I  searched  for  you  and  found  no  clue  to  your 
place  of  abode,  until  I  saw  that  picture  of  Linda 
and  yourself;  I  knew  by  whose  hand  it  was 
painted  —  and  —  and  I  am  here,  Rachel !  Here 
to  ask  you  to  repeat  what  you  once  promised  me 
in  happier  —  ah  !  no,  not  in  happier  days,  for  I  had 
not  then  been  the  artisan  of  my  own  fortunes  —  I 
was  not  then  worthy  to  become  the  protector  of 
such  a  woman. 

Rachel.  —  Hubert !  Hubert !  (throwing  herself 
in  his  arms). 

Rosa.  —  Oh  !  I'm  so  happy  !  And  so  I  guess 
they  all  are ! 

Rachel.  —  I  once  gloried  in  the  thought  of  en- 
riching you  Hubert,  now  I  must  rejoice  even  more 
in  receiving  all  from  you. 

Hubert.  —  You  do  enrich  me  with  yourself.  You 
are  a  treasure  no  earthly  wealth  can  equal.  And, 
Linda,  you  will  let  me  be  your  physician,  as  well 
as  your  brother  ? 

Linda.  —  I  thought   you   were   never   going  to 

16 


182  Charades. 

speak  to  me.  Dear  Hubert,  I  have  longed  more 
than  any  one  else  to  see  you. 

Rosa.  —  She's  talked  of  you  often  enough  — 
oftener,  a  great  deal,  than  any  one  else — I  can 
tell  you  that.  Oh !  I'm  so  glad  !  I'll  burn  that 
drawing-desk  to-morrow  morning.  Rachel's  busy 
fingers  shall  have  a  holiday  —  that  they  shall !  I'll 
hide  all  the  brushes  and  paints  for  a  year. 

Rachel.  —  But  you  must  not  forget  that  the  hap- 
piness of  this  hour  has  been  won  by  toil. 

THE    END. 

(Answer  to  charade  —  Industry.) 


SERENA. 


HE  is  ever  welcome !  Welcome  at  all 
hours,  welcome  in  all  seasons !  When 
the  hour  is  one  of  darkness,  her  coming 
dissipates  its  heaviest  shadows  ;  when  the  season  is 
one  of  joy,  her  presence  increases  its  fulness  ;  she 
brings  Heaven's  sunshine  in  the  doors  with  her ! 
To  depict  a  balmy,  all-pervading  atmosphere,  to 
paint  a  deliciously  soothing  aroma,  would  be  tasks 
not  more  difficult  than  to  define  the  nameless,  soul- 
penetrating  charm  that  hangs  around  Serena,  as 
perfume  about  a  flower.  To  sit  beside  her,  to  be 
near  her,  communicate  an  internal  satisfaction 
wholly  indescribable.  It  is  not  because  she  is  al- 
ways so  cheerful,  for  many  a  gayer  friend  has  not 
the  same  exhilarating  power.  Serena's  influence 
is  at  once  tranquillizing  and  enlivening.  A  sense 
of  quietude,  brightness,  harmony,  accompanies 
her.  At  the  sound  of  her  voice,  the  gentle  pres- 
sure of  her  hand,  the  soft  beaming  of  her  face, 
calmness  falls  upon  the  restless,  courage  is  infused 
into  the  disheartened,  peace  comes  to  the  troubled, 

(183) 


184  Serena. 

discordant  Ate  is  put  to  flight  from  the  most  de- 
mon-possessed household. 

All  reserve  melts  away  when  we  converse  with 
Serena.  We  confide  in  her  involuntarily  ;  yet  she 
never  seems  curious,  never  desires  to  know  more 
than  we  are  disposed  to  impart,  never,  by  a  random 
question,  touches  upon  a  painful  or  humiliating 
subject,  never  tears  open  a  healing  wound,  never 
hunts  for  the  skeleton  hidden  in  our  closets.  We 
are  not  fearful  of  wearying  her  by  recounting  the 
history  of  our  vexations  and  disappointments,  she 
makes  them  her  own,  for  the  moment,  hearkening 
with  patient  interest  while  we  pour  out  all  our  sor- 
rows. And  how  many  a  full  heart  has  been 
lightened  of  its  oppressive  burden  by  talking  away 
its  grievances  to  some  mild  and  sympathizing  lis- 
tener ! 

We  are  not  afraid  of  letting  her  behold  our 
weaknesses,  our  errors,  nay,  our  grave  misdeeds. 
We  are  sure  that  she  will  bestow  pity  and  spare 
censure.  Rahel  said  rightly,  "  he  alone  is  worthy 
to  be  called  a  friend  to  whom  we  dare  show  our- 
selves as  we  are."  Serena  is  so  lenient  and  so 
compassionate  that  we  almost  venture  to  believe 
she  herself  has  erred  as  sadly  as  we.  Thus  we 
gain  courage  to  rise  from  the  mire,  into  which  some 
false  step  has  plunged  us,  humbly  to  wash  our  gar- 
ments in  tears  of  penitence,  and  dare  to  hope  that 
we  may  stand  as  upright,  and  as  purified  from  stain, 
as  she. 


Serena.  185 

Serena  possesses  a  delightful  faculty  of  con- 
forming herself  to  the  mood  in  which  she  finds  us, 
even  while  she  is  changing  that  mood  to  a  wiser 
and  better.  Call  it  tact,  good  nature,  charitable 
forbearance,  what  you  will,  she  never  jars  the 
mournful  with  her  gayety,  she  never  throws  a 
shadow  over  the  mirthful  by  her  seriousness,  she 
never  scoffs  at  the  self-created  miseries  with  which 
the  fretful  martyrize  themselves,  she  never  ex- 
cites the  irritable  by  misplaced  opposition,  she 
never  tortures  the  nervous  by  ridicule  ;  —  she  com- 
prehends all,  makes  allowances  for  all,  and  for- 
bears to  rebuke  the  unhappy  state  which  she  is 
softening  or  dispelling.  Possibly,  Serenas  virtues 
are  not  greater  than  those  which  adorn  thousands 
of  other  women,  but  her  virtues  are  none  latent, 
are  ever  in  full  activity  —  ever  go  out  of  her  at 
the  touch  of  a  needing  hand,  at  the  sound  of  a  sup- 
plicating voice  ;  and  truly 

"  If  our  virtues 
Did  not  go  forth  of  us,  '  twere  all  alike 
As  if  we  had  them  not.  " 

She  magnetizes  to  the  surface  all  the  best  qual- 
ities that  slumber  deep  in  our  spirits,  and  renders 
our  evil  propensities  quiescent  without  making  us 
lose  a  consciousness  of  their  existence.  We  never 
feel  as  though  there  is  such  large  capacity  for 
goodness  within  us  as  when  we  sit  within  her 
sphere.     And  yet,  paradoxical  as  it  may  seem,  we 

16* 


186  Serena. 

never  regard  our  own  attributes  with  so  much  hu- 
mility. 

No  misfortune  ever  assailed  us  which  the  holy 
alchemy  of  her  mind  could  not  transmute  to  good. 
She  impresses  us  with  the  conviction  that  circum- 
stance is  but  another  name  for  the  will  of  Heaven  ; 
that  hope  has  been  rightly  interpreted  by  the  queen- 
poet  of  the  age  as  "  belief  in  God, "  and  that  a 
cheerful  acquiescence  to  circumstance,  and  a  belief 
in  God  which  keeps  hope  alive,  expand  the  soul 
and  bring  it  into  a  state  to  admit  the  blessings 
which  our  gracious  Master  dispenses  according  to 
our  capacity  to  receive. 

There  are  always  pleasant  words  dropping  from 
her  lips,  that  strike  upon  the  kindly  strings  of  the 
heart  until  they  vibrate  with  an  involuntary  re- 
sponse. But  we  cannot  analyze  the  manifold  lit- 
tle ways  by  which  she  stirs  some  pulse  of  pleasure 
within  us,  even  when  we  are  perversely  resolved 
to  sit  in  the  gloom  of  thankless  discontent.  It  is 
impossible  to  define  the  apparently  insignificant 
agencies  by  which  she  produces  these  agreeable 
results  ;  because,  as  Coleridge  says,  —  "  the  happi- 
ness of  life  is  made  up  of  minute  fractions  ;  the  lit- 
tle, soon-forgotten  charities  of  a  kiss,  a  smile,  a 
kind  look,  a  heartfelt  compliment  in  the  disguise 
of  playful  raillery,  and  the  countless  other  infini- 
tesimals of  pleasurable  thought  and  genial  feel- 
ing." 

And  yet  Serena  is  by  no  means  one  of  those  for- 


Serena.  187 

tunate  beings  whose  own  lot  can  be  called  thor- 
oughly happy.  Though  she  is  so  placid  and  sunny, 
she  has  not  enjoyed  an  existence  of  uninterrupted 
felicity.  Far  from  it ;  she  has  known  bitter  disap- 
pointments —  pinching  privations  —  heart- convuls- 
ing sorrows.  But  they  have  not  crushed  her  elas- 
tic nature  ;  they  have  not  soured  its  instinctive 
sweetness  ;  and  the  very  patience  and  heroism  with 
which  she  has  borne  her  burdens  have  fitted  her  to 
impart  to  others  the  secret  of  endurance.  Her 
own  anguish  has  taught  her  a  tender,  helpful  sym- 
pathy with  all  sufferers,  all  mourners.  She  can- 
not look  upon  a  fellow-traveller,  lying  prostrate 
upon  the  great  human  high-road,  and  pass  by  on 
the  other  side,  without  stopping  to  greet,  to  raise, 
to  pour  oil  into  the  bleeding  wounds.  But,  do  not 
imagine  that  she  has,  even  now,  an  ample  share  of 
worldly  blessings  ;  measured  by  the  gauge  of  what 
contents  others,  her  portion  is  poor,  but  of  every 
blessing,  even  the  smallest,  she  is  conscious ;  for 
every  one,  even  the  most  common-place,  she  is 
thankful ;  and  thus,  her  humble  store  seems  to  her 
as  sufficient  and  as  inexhaustible  as  were  the  never- 
failing  meal  and  oil  to  the  hospitable  widow  of  Sa- 
repta. 

Serena  has  not  forgotten  her  own  chastening 
afflictions,  but  she  never  repines,  never  broods  over 
them,  seldom  even  alludes  to  them.  Her  cheer- 
fulness is  not  simply  a  matter  of  temperament ;  it 
it  has  been  cultivated  upon  principle.     She  vali- 


188  Serena. 

antly  wages  war  against  morbid  melancholy ;  she 
looks  upon  its  indulgence  as  a  positive  sin.  There 
is  a  passage  in  "  A  Woman's  Thoughts  about  Wo- 
men, "  which  we  never  read  without  calling  Serena 
to  mind.  The  author  says,  iC  If  women  did  but 
know  what  comfort  there  is  in  a  cheerful  spirit ! 
How  the  heart  leaps  up  to  meet  a  sunshiny  face, 
a  merry  tongue,  an  even  temper,  and  a  heart  which 
either  naturally,  or,  what  is  better,  from  conscien- 
tious principle,  has  learned  to  take  all  things  on 
their  bright  side  ;  believing  that  the  Giver  of  life, 
being  all-perfect  Love,  the  best  offering  we  can 
make  to  Him  is  to  enjoy  to  the  full  what  He  sends 
of  good,  and  bear  what  He  allows  of  evil.  Like  a 
child  who,  when  once  it  thoroughly  believes  in  its 
father,  believes  in  all  his  dealings  with  it,  whether 
it  understands  them  or  not.  "  Even  so  the  hearts 
of  all  who  know  her,  leap  up  towards  Serena. 

We  are  acquainted  with  many  women  who  take 
pleasure  in  being  voluntarily  useful ;  but  Serena 
likes,  what  most  people  detest,  to  be  made  use  of; 
to  be  unceremoniously  looked  upon  as  a  ready  help- 
er. When  there  is  sickness  in  the  home  of  a 
friend,  she  is  petitioned  to  watch  night  and  day  be- 
side the  couch  of  pain,  and  she  never  grows  weary 
of  her  vigils.  When  there  is  work  to  be  done  in 
haste,  preparations  for  mourning,  or  for  festivity, 
her  active,  willing  hands  are,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
called  upon  to  aid.  When  there  is  discord  in  a 
household,  she  is  summoned  to  be  an  umpire  be- 


Serena.  189 

tween  the  disputants.  When  there  is  sorrow,  she 
is  sent  for  to  cheer  and  counsel.  When  there  is 
misfortune  and  need,  her  assistance  is  unhesitatingly 
asked  and  promptly  given,  to  the  full  extent  of  her 
narrow  means.  It  never  occurs  to  Serena  that  her 
willingness  to  serve  sometimes  causes  her  to  be 
imposed  upon  ;  she  does  not  account  it  imposition 
to  be  expected  to  lend  all  the  help  she  is  able  to 
offer. 

It  is  often  difficult  to  repress  a  smile  at  the  nat- 
ural way  in  which  Serena  takes  out  her  needle, 
thimble,  and  scissors,  (which  she  always  carries, 
accompanied  by  a  well  supplied,  little  pincushion, 
in  that  capacious  pocket  of  hers,)  and  speeds  the 
work  of  some  Martha  like  friend  whom  she  is 
casually  visiting.  When  her  hostess  remonstrates, 
Serena  says,  truly,  that  it  gives  her  pleasure,  to  aid, 
that  she  finds  work  promotes  conversation  and  is 
less  wearisome  than  sitting  with  one's  hands 
folded. 

The  perfect  melody  that  pervades  Serena's  soul, 
has  communicated  its  music  to  her  voice,  and  her 
sweet  singing  lulls  to  sleep  many  a  pain,  and 
soothes  many  an  ear,  wearied  by  the  clamor  of  the 
world.  Her  touching  carols  gush  forth  at  our  bid- 
ding as  though  she  never  thought  them  of  sufficient 
value  to  be  withheld  from  common  use.  And  then 
that  beautifully  modulated  voice,  rich  in  its  pathetic 
sweetness,  liquid  in  its  joyous  clearness,  is  often 
used  in  reading  aloud.     Her  rapidly  varying  into- 


190  Serena. 

nations  give  a  living  presence  to  the  characters, 
emotions,  imagery  portrayed,  and  reach  the  highest 
climax  of  art  in  making  the  listener  forget  alike 
reader  and  author,  in  the  reality  of  the  scene,  or 
interest  of  the  subject.  For  that  reason  we  never 
tire  of  her  reading,  though  we  have  often  listened 
for  hours  without  pause. 

We  once  said  to  her  when  she  was  exerting  her- 
self with  unremitting  zeal  to  serve  and  console  one 
who  was  almost  a  stranger,  who  had  no  claim  save 
that  of  being  a  struggler  upon  life's  turbulent  sea, 

"  Eeally    you    take    too    much    trouble  for " 

Serena  looked  up  with  an  indescribable  expression 
in  her  mild,  hazel  eyes,  —  it  was  not  a  reproachful 
look,  yet  it  sank  deeper  than  any  reproach  —  and 
answered  gently, ';  I  never  find  anything  that  I  can 
do,  too  much  trouble,  it  never  seems  to  me  trouble  at 
all.  I  struck  that  word  out  of  my  Lexicon  years 
ago." 

We  never  think  of  thanking  Serena  for  what  she 
does  ;  thanks  seem  out  of  place  because  they  are 
so  inadequate.  We  never  talk  to  her  of  gratitude, 
nor  ever  utter  praises  ;  she  expects  neither,  de- 
sires neither.  On  one  occasion,  when  a  heart  over, 
flowing  with  thankfulness  poured  itself  out  before 
her,  we  heard  Serena  laughingly  reply,  "  You  might 
as  well  thank  the  brash,  in  the  hand  of  a  noble  artist, 
for  painting  a  picture,  instead  of  thanking  the  artist 
himself.  I  am  but  as  a  brush,  a  weak  instrument 
in  the  divine  hand,  which  uses  you,  and  uses  me, 


Serena.  191 

according  to  our  willingness  and  quality,  and  finds 
the  best  of  us  but  rude  brushes,  unfit  for  the  grand 
designs  which  it  strives  to  trace  out  through  our 
imperfect  touches." 

There  is  nothing  in  Serena's  quiet  demeanor 
which  proclaims  her  better  than  others ;  there  is 
none  of  that  self-complacency  which  wakes  antag- 
onistic feelings  ;  none  of  that  conscious  superiority 
which  impels  us  to  dispute  its  claims.  We  are 
sure  she  is  never  thinking  of  herself,  and  it  is  her 
thinking  of  others  that  makes  us  think  of  her. 
When  her  opinions  differ  from  ours,  she  never  im- 
plies, by  word  or  look,  that  those  she  holds  are 
indubitably  right,  and  ours  as  indubitably  wrong. 
If  we  gradually  arrive  at  the  conclusion  that  she  is 
right,  it  is  because  she  has  such  a  modest,  but 
lucid  mode  of  conveying  her  convictions,  that  we 
cannot  fail  to  recognize  the  heavenly  halo  around 
the  brow  of  Truth. 

We  do  not  know  whether  artistic  judges  call 
Serena  beautiful ;  but  to  us  her  face  is  lovely  be- 
yond all  picturing.  We  never  tire  of  dwelling 
upon  the  soft  lights  of  her  eyes,  the  changing 
expressions  of  her  lips,  melting  one  into  another 
with  eloquent  transitions.  It  may  be  a  foolish  fan- 
cy, but  she  always  seems  to  us  as  if  she  wore  an 
unfading  hearts-ease,  in  her  white  bosom,  and  as 
though  that  symbol,  plainly  visible  to  our  sight, 
gave  a  beauty  far  surpassing  that  of  rarest  gems, 
to  her  attire. 


192  Serena. 

O  !  true  sister  of  charity,  bound  by  unerring  im- 
pulses, stronger  than  all  vows,  would  that  thy  wel- 
come feet  might  find  their  way  into  the  homes  of 
all  whom  we  love  ;  that  thy  serene  countenance 
might  leave  its  image  in  the  mind  of  all  who  need 
to  learn  how  much  strength  can  be  allied  to 
tranquillity ! 


HE  COULD  NOT  SAY  "NO." 


ONSTANTLY  petitioned;  invariably  im- 
posed upon ;  mercilessly  laughed  at ; 
what  a  life  of  torment  Mr.  Stillwell  leads ! 
and  all  through  his  incapacity  to  utter  that  little 
word  "  no."  He  has  tried,  and  given  up  in  help- 
less despair ;  a  negative  always  dies  unspoken  upon 
his  tongue.  Possibly  that  affirmative  smile,  which 
perpetually  expands  his  mouth,  is  the  great  draw- 
back. How  can  lips  that  are  always  smiling  t;  yes  " 
contract  themselves  to  form  "  no  %  "  The  expression 
of  Mr.  Stiilwell's  countenance  reminds  us  of  a  pic- 
ture of  Garrick  which  represents  him  wooed  by 
Comedy  on  one  side,  and  tragedy  on  the  other ;  or 
of  Byron's  poetical  simile,  "  a  pendulum  betwixt  a 
smile  and  tear ; "  for  Mr.  Stillwell  ever  wears  a 
look  of  yielding  good  humor  conflicting  with  sup- 
pressed sadness. 

His  horror  of  refusing  and  fear  of  offending, 
have  totally  annihilated  his  power  of  discriminating 
between  individuals.  Everybody  has,  or  seems  to 
have,  an  entrance  to  his  heart,  his  house,  his  purse. 
As  a  natural  consequence,  everybody  makes  use  of 

17  (193) 


194  He  could  not  say  "  No." 

him ;  everybody  ridicules  him ;  and,  because  his 
favors  are  so  general,  nobody  is  grateful  to  him. 
He  is  reputed  to  enjoy  a  large  income,  yet  his  bach- 
elor establishment  gives  no  evidence  of  comfort, 
though  much  of  waste.  His  home  is  the  head- 
quarters of  his  self-elected  bosom  friends,  whose 
extravagance  could  only  be  kept  in  check  by  that 
small  monosyllable  of  denial  which  Mr.  Still  well  is 
unable  to  pronounce.  These  attached  companions 
eat  his  dinners,  drink  his  champagne,  ride  his  horses, 
borrow  his  money  (who  would  not  be  tempted  to 
borrow  from  a  man  who  never  said  "  no  ? "),  and 
parade  the  streets  arm-in-arm  with  him,  rubbing 
their  fine  broadcloth  (purchased  with  his  means), 
against  the  rusty  coat  he  does  not  feel  rich  enough 
to  cast  aside  for  a  better. 

People  never  imagine  that  his  time  can  be  of 
any  value,  and  appropriate  as  much  of  it  as  proves 
agreeable  to  themselves.  When  he  is  passing  from 
one  locality  to  another,  in  the  greatest  haste,  some 
political,  or  philanthropic,  or  religious  friend  inva- 
riably seizes  him  by  the  button  hole,  to  discuss  a 
vexed  question,  and  obtain  his  opinion.  His  opin- 
ion, forsooth  !  As  if  there  could  be  a  doubt  of  his 
opinion  ?  Of  course  it  coincides  with  that  of  the 
person  who  addresses  him.  The  affirmative  ele- 
ment of  which  his  nature  is  composed,  prevents 
his  arguing  a  point,  or  contradicting  an  assertion, 
or  disagreeing  in  any  shape.  The  button-hole 
friend   has  scarcely  released   him,  he  has  hardly 


He  could  not  say  "  No"  195 

taken  a  few  hurried  steps  onward,  before  he  is 
waylaid  by  an  advocate  of  the  other  side  of  the 
anxious  question ;  and  now  he  is  floated  upon  a 
stream  of  verbiage,  through  all  the  intricate  chan- 
nels of  the  troubled  waters.  What  can  he  do  but 
yield  himself  up  to  the  current'?  He  is  of  this 
man's  mind  as  he  was  of  the  other  man's  mind,  and 
lays  no  claim  to  any  mind  of  hi«s  own.  But  the 
blowing  hot  and  cold  to  suit  the  temperature  of  his 
haranguers,  entails  serious  consequences.  The 
opposite  parties  meet ;  each  claims  Stillwell  as  an 
ally  ;  both  attack  him ;  both  buffet  him  about,  and 
both  end  in  denouncing  him  as  an  enemy.  Thus, 
though  he  never  differs  with  anybody,  and  wastes 
his  life  in  fruitless  efforts  to  conform  himself  to 
every  one's  views,  he  is  always  giving  offence 
through  the  discovery  of  his  inconsistency,  and 
does  not  even  enjoy  the  empty  reward  of  popularity. 
It  is  curious  to  watch  how  naturally  people 
impose  upon  him.  With  what  singular  clairvoyance 
they  discover  his  inability  to  articulate  a  negative. 
In  a  crowded  stage  coach  he  is  instinctively  selected 
by  an  overburdened  mother,  to  hold  on  his  knee 
some  fractious  descendant,  famous  for  rasping  shins. 
At  the  opera  he  is  always  asked  if  he  is  willing  to 
accommodate  Mrs.  or  Miss  somebody  by  exchang- 
ing his  choice  seat  for  one  where  he  can  neither 
hear  nor  see.  In  the  cars  he  is  invariably  the  first 
person  required  to  stand,  that  others  may  sit  in 
comfort.     At  a  party  of  pleasure  he  is  sure  to  have 


196  He  could  not  say  "No." 

all  the  pains,  through  the  care  of  the  crockery  and 
the  juveniles.  When  he  spends  an  evening  in 
company  he  is  always  asked  to  escort  a  lady  home, 
generally  the  least  interesting  person  present,  and 
the  one  that  lives  at  the  greatest  distance.  Young 
damsels  coolly  send  him  on  all  sorts  of  trouble- 
some and  unreasonable  errands,  and  scarcely  give 
him  thanks  in  return.  Why  should  they  ?  He  is 
so  good-natured,  they  say,  he  never  refuses  to  do 
anything,  and  it  is  so  much  a  matter  of  course  to 
call  upon  him !  But  in  spite  of  that  unvarying, 
stereotyped  smile  with  which  Mr.  Stillwell  greets 
these  requests,  we  are  quite  sure  that  he  is  secretly 
conscious  of  the  persecution  he  endures  ;  he  knows 
very  well  that  people  evince  no  consideration  for 
him,  but  alas  !  never  suspects  that  it  is  simply  be- 
cause he  has  no  consideration  for  himself. 

Mr.  Stillwell  not  only  suffers  from  the  ill-treat- 
ment of  his  multitudinous  friends,  but  —  what  is 
far  worse  —  he  is  frequently  afflicted  with  self- 
reproach,  for  he  is  often  led  to  sanction  acts  which 
he  despises,  and  walk  in  ways  that  he  abhors, 
merely  because  he  can  not  answer  "  No  "  to  the 
tempter. 

"More  of  courage  is  required 
This  one  word  to  say, 
Than  to  stand  where  shots  are  fired 
In  the  battle  fray ! 

"  Use  it  fitly  and  yell  see 
Many  a  lot  below, 
May  be  schooled  and  nobly  ruled, 
By  power  to  utter  '  No.' " 


He  could  not  say  "  No."  197 

Though  Mr.  Stillwellis  approaching  the  meridian 
of  his  days,  as  we  have  said,  he  is  yet  a  bachelor. 
Probably  his  horror  of  the  dread  "  no,"  has  pre- 
vented his  running  the  risk  of  hearing  it  from  lips 
which  smiled  on  him.  If  some  pitying  maid  or 
widow,  should  ever  chance  to  avail  herself  of  the 
privilege  of  leap-year,  Mr.  Still  well's  settled  aver- 
sion to  the  negative  may  eventually  secure  him  a 
partner,  who,  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  will  answer 
"  no "  for  him,  and  thus  defend  him  against  his 
tormentors,  and  lead  him  to  the  turn  in  that  long, 
briery  lane,  through  which  he  is  so  sadly  journey- 
ing. That  is  the  one  hope  left  for  him.  Would 
he  be  the  first  man  who  had  found  his  salvation 
through  a  woman  ? 
17* 


WHO  ARE  THE  GREAT? 


HUE  greatness,"  says  Kogers,  "  consists 
in  doing  what  deserves  to  be  written, 
and  writing  what  deserves  to  be  read, 
and  in  making  mankind  happier  and  better  for 
your  life."  Judged  by  this  pure  standard,  how 
few,  and  yet  how  many,  are  great !  Few  whose 
deeds  the  loud  clarion  of  Fame  has  trumpeted 
throughout  the  world  —  many  whose  lives  have 
never  been  chronicled  save  in  the  books  of  record- 
ing angels  ! 

Not  always  the  great,  and  not  alone  the  great, 
are  the  "  plenipotentiaries  of  the  intellect," 
though  their  brows  may  be  circled  with  undying 
laurels,  and  their  lyres  may  sound  from  age  to  age. 
Not  alone  the  great  are  they  who  have  lashed 
mens  passions  into  the  strife  of  war,  and  triumph- 
antly swayed  the  destinies  of  nations,  overthrown 
kingdoms,  or  founded  republics.  Not  alone  the 
great  are  they  who,  in  the  pathless  heavens,  or 
beyond  the  trackless  seas,  have  pointed  out  new 
worlds.  Not  alone  the  great  are  they  who  have 
wrought  the    miracles   of    science    into   familiar 

(198) 


Who  are  the  Great?  199 

things  —  wafted  messages  through  the  viewless 
air,  or  sent  them  beneath  the  fathomless  ocean. 
These  may  have  achieved  what  deserves  to  be 
written,  and  may  have  written  what  deserves  to  be 
read,  and  may  have  made  mankind  happier  and 
better  for  their  lives,  and  therefore  they  may  have 
earned  the  title  of  "  great."  And  if  their  great- 
ness be  genuine,  the  hollow-voiced  applause  and 
the  undiscriminating  homage  of  mankind  are  not 
their  dearest  guerdon. 

But  among  earth's  lowliest  sojourners  there  are 
some  as  great  or  greater,  to  the  unseen  eyes  that 
are  always  watching,  always  judging,  always  pity- 
ing or  approving. 

Wert  thou  not  of  that  holy  number,  sweet,  pale- 
faced  Joan  Lynn?  No  poet  has  woven  into  high- 
sounding  verse  the  story  of  thy  daily  martyrdom  ; 
but  thy  toils,  and  privations,  and  uncomplaining 
gentleness  are  written  in  golden  characters  where 
angel  eyes  may  read. 

Yet  Joan's  life  is  but  an  every-day  history,  after 
all ;  a  series  of  common-place  pictures,  unrelieved 
by  the  glow  of  poetic  light  or  the  stir  of  romantic 
incident. 

Joan,  in  her  fifteenth  year,  was  the  eldest  of  five 
in  a  motherless  household.  Household,  forsooth  ! 
We  use  a  large  word  to  express  the  single  room 
that  sheltered  five  children  and  their  father.  A 
child  herself,  Joan  had  a  wife's  cares  and  a  mo- 
ther's duties.     Ailing  herself,  she   tended   those 


200  Who  are  the  Great? 

suffering  little  ones  with  untiring  watchfulness. 
Ignorant  herself,  she  taught  those  who  would  have 
had  no  teaching  else.  Wretchedly  poor,  she  soft- 
ened to  them  the  pangs  of  poverty.  Feeble  in 
body,  she  performed  the  labor  of  the  strong. 
With  aching  eyes,  and  over-strained  limbs,  and 
weary  head,  she  toiled  alone,  from  day  to  day. 
She  cooked,  she  scrubbed,  she  washed,  she  sewed  ; 
she  did  all  that  had  to  be  done,  and  she  did  all 
well. 

Her  attenuated  little  form  was  bowed  with  the 
weight  of  its  premature  burdens  ;  her  busy  little 
hands  were  feverish  from  their  ceaseless  activity ; 
upon  her  little,  pinched,  and  sunken  face  want 
was  inscribed  in  legible  letters,  with  patience  soft- 
ly written  beneath. 

If  she  had  beauty  she  knew  it  not.  If  she  had 
intellect  she  was  only  conscious  of  the  gift  because 
it  was  of  use,  even  in  her  slavish  avocations.  If 
comforts  and  enjoyments,  granted  to  her  neighbors, 
were  denied  her,  she  had  scarcely  time  to  think  of 
the  deprivation.  She  never  asked  why  poverty, 
and  toil,  and  rags  were  her  portion,  while  other 
young  maidens,  tricked  out  in  the  gewgaws  of  the 
world,  jostled  her  on  the  road. 

She  had  seen  children  returning  home  from 
pleasant  country  rambles,  with  wild  flowers  in 
their  hands,  and  with  their  baskets,  or  aprons,  filled 
with  bright  green  mosses,  and  other  sylvan  treas- 
ures.    She  had  heard  them  talk  of  their  sports 


Who  are  the  Great?  201 

under  the  grand  old  trees  in  the  woods  ;  of  acorn 
cups,  and  pine  cones,  and  ripe  nuts,  among  the 
withered  leaves ;  of  the  songs  of  the  birds  ; ""  of 
gambols,  bare-footed,  in  the  brook  ;  and  she  had 
turned  her  wistful,  admiring  eyes  upon  the  delicate 
flowers,  and  given  an  involuntary  sigh,  as  though 
to  inhale  their  breath  ;  and  she  had  longed  to  lay 
her  hot  hands  on  the  cool,  fresh  moss,  and  won- 
dered if  she  would  ever  ramble  in  a  wood,  or  lis- 
ten to  the  birds'  singing  ;  and  felt  a  thrill  of  pleas- 
ure as  she  pictured  to  herself  the  refreshing  de- 
light of  resting  her  weary  feet  in  the  clear,  cold 
water  of  the  brook.  But  these  were  only  passing 
thoughts,  not  unaccompanied  by  a  faint  hope; 
they  never  degenerated  into  repinings. 

It  seemed  natural  that  life  should  be  the  most 
wearisome,  the  most  detestable  burden  to  Joan. 
Yet  there  was  a  soft,  inner  light,  a  moon-like  radi- 
ance beaming  through  those  meek,  hazel  eyes, 
that  said  it  was  not  so.  Sit  beside  her,  and  talk 
to  her,  as  she  rapidly  plied  her  needle,  and  thought 
aloud,  in  her  sweet,  ingenuous  way,  and  you  felt 
that  it  was  not  so.  It  appeared  impossible  that 
this  poverty-stricken,  over-tasked,  half-starved 
child  should  know  the  pulse  of  pleasure,  should 
recognize  the  existence  of  happiness  ;  yet  to  joyful 
emotions  she  was  not  wholly  a  stranger. 

A  very  trivial  incident  opened  a  fountain  of  de- 
light in  her  miserable  home.  She  was  sitting  by 
the  window  at  twilight,  combing  the  tangled  locks 


202  Who  are  the  Great? 

of  a  little  sister,  wlien  an  open  carriage  slowly 
passed  her  humble  door.  Within  reclined  a  fair 
young  girl,  whose  seraph  face  seemed  literally 
framed  in  her  shining,  golden  tresses.  She  was 
arrayed  in  white,  and  her  countenance  was  as  hue- 
less  as  her  vesture.  Her  attitude  bespoke  unmis- 
takable feebleness.  One  hand  drooped  over  the  side 
of  the  carriage,  and  held  a  sprig  of  rare  geranium. 
Her  lustrous  eyes,  which  had  the  glance  of  those 
that  look  not  long  upon  earthly  things,  turned 
for  a  moment  on  Joan.  Either  the  motion  of  the 
horses  shook  the  branch  from  her  grasp,  or  she 
dropped  it  intentionally,  impelled  by  Joan's  wistful 
gaze.  The  little  maiden  saw  where  the  green 
sprig  fell,  and  darted  into  the  street,  and  gathered 
it  up,  her  face  glowing  with  thanks,  as  she  looked 
after  the  young  girl,  who,  by  some  inexplicable 
kind  of  magnetism,  had  turned  her  head,  and  once 
more  fixed  her  gentle  eyes  on  Joan.  The  unearth- 
ly whiteness t  of  the  face,  the  pure  garments,  the 
pitying  smile  hovering  about  the  pale  lips,  made 
Joan  feel  as  if  an  angel  had  passed  her  way,  and 
greeted  her  with  this  token  of  love,  and  vanished. 
Very  tenderly  she  planted  the  slip  in  an  old 
broken  bowl,  and  she  watered,  and  sunned,  and 
watched  it ;  and  in  time  it  grew  vigorously,  and 
shot  out  spreading  branches  and  finely-cut  leaves  ; 
and  by-and-by  it  put  forth  clusters  of  rose-colored 
flowers,  shaded  with  more  vivid  auroral  tints  ;  and 
great  was  Joan's  exultation. 


Who  are  the  Great?  203 

How  often  she  would  pause  in  her  work  to  bury 
her  wan  face  among  the  leaves,  and  inhale  their 
rich  perfume  !  And  then,  for  a  moment,  she 
seemed  to  herself  to  be  walking  in  those  woods  of 
which  the  children  told,  and  paddling  in  the  cool 
brook,  or  sitting  on  the  velvety  moss,  listening  to 
the  songs  of  the  birds.  The  little  geranium  bush 
was  garden,  and  wood,  and  brook  and  bird  to  her. 
She  had  that  joy. 

Joan  found  a  daily  pleasure,  too,  in  the  noisy, 
troublesome,  motherless  children,  whose  caresses 
soothed  and  comforted  her.  Tiny  Jamie,  the 
youngest,  was  always  sick,  but  he  was  a  quiet,  pa- 
tient little  sufferer,  and  she  loved  him  all  the  better 
because  he  needed  so  much  love  and  care.  The 
others  were  restless  and  boisterous,  and  cried  oft- 
en, and  lustily,  but  she  only  rejoiced  that  they 
showed  such  strength  of  limbs  and  lungs.  She 
sat  still  sewing,  or  knelt  scrubbing,  or  strained  her 
poor,  weak  back  washing,  but  gambolled  with 
them  in  heart,  as  they  gambolled  around  her. 
When  she  taught  them  the  little  that  she  knew, 
she  felt  a  mysterious  increase  of  knowledge,  as 
though  she  herself  received  unconscious  teachings. 
When  they  lay  in  the  sweet  sleep  of  thoughtless 
childhood,  it  rested  her  to  see  them  rest.  So  she 
had  joys  through  them. 

Then,  too,  she  loved  that  sad-hearted,  weak, 
sinful  man  whom  she  called  "  father."  Her  young 
brain  was  always  busy  planning  ways  to  lift  him 


204  Who  are  the  Great? 

out  of  the  temptation  into  which  he  had  fallen, 
through  the  grief  which  seeks  to  drown  itself  in 
oblivion.  Upon  some  days  she  was  successful,  and 
then  the  golden  light  of  hope  illumined,  to  her 
eyes,  their  squalid  little  room,  until  it  shone  as  a 
palace  chamber  at  a  festival.     This  was  her  crown* 

At  length,  when  Winnifred,  Joan's  younger 
sister,  was  old  enough,  and  was  strong  enough, 
through  the  strength  imparted  by  Joan's  example, 
to  take  her  place,  a  voice,  unheard  by  other  ears, 
whispered  the  tired  maiden  that  she  might  lay  her 
burden  down  ;  that  her  lowly  labors  were  ended, 
and  there  was  more  joyful  work  for  her  to  do 
up  higher.  Then  her  weary  hands  dropped  help- 
lessly to  her  side,  her  thin  face  grew  ashen  in  its 
pallor,  and  the  soft  light  faded  slowly  out  of  her 
heavy  eyes. 

As  she  lay  upon  the  hard  couch,  from  whence 
she  was  never  more  to  rise,  she  pointed  to  her  one 
treasure  —  her  beautiful  geranium  bush  —  and  it 
was  placed  by  her  side.  It  chanced  at  that  period 
to  be  covered  with  the  most  magnificent  flowers 
that  it  had  ever  borne.  She  smiled  as  her  dim 
eyes  rested  upon  them,  and  bright  visions  rose  once 
more  before  her  internal  sight ;  but  they  were  no 
longer  of  the  gardens  of  earth !  And,  hovering 
above  the  roseate  blossoms,  she  saw  the  face  of 
the  fair  girl  who  had  been  sent  to  drop  the  only 
flowers  that  ever  gladdened  her   path,  and  to  flit 


Who  are  the  Great?  205 

by  nameless  and  unknown.  The  countenance 
was  surely  that  of  an  angel.  Through  Joan's  brief 
life,  that  face  alone  had  helped  her  to  conceive 
what  angel  faces  might  be. 

Falling  peacefully  asleep,  Joan  departed — it 
might  be  to  behold  that  lovely  and  familiar  visage 
nearer  still.  She  had  accomplished  her  destiny 
and  finished  her  work.  She  had  written  no  books 
that  would  send  her  name  down  to  posterity,  had 
sung  no  songs  which  future  ages  would  sing,  had 
achieved  nothing  glorious  in  the  realms  of  art,  had 
made  no  marvellous  discoveries,  had  earned  no 
fame  ;  but  she  had  set  a  great  example,  which 
might  profit  others  as  much  as  literature,  or  artis- 
tic creations,  or  the  wonders  of  science,  or  the 
deeds  of  the  famous. 

Had  she  not  answered  Eogers'  definition  of  true 
greatness  ?  Had  she  not  done  what  deserves  to 
be  written  %  If  she  could  have  written,  would  it 
not  have  been  what  deserves  to  be  read  ?  Had  she 
not  made  others  better  and  happier  for  her  life,  in 
spite  of  its  narrow  sphere  I  And  therefore  was 
not  the  obscure  child  of  toil  one  of  the  Great  \ 

18 


PRUDENTIA. 


E  call  her  Prudentia  ;  not  that  it  is  the 
name  written  on  her  brow  with  holy, 
baptismal  waters,  but  because  the  word 
expresses  her  individuality.  In  the  hereafter,  when 
we  receive  new  names,  as  we  enter  the  great  eter- 
nal land,  will  not  those  appellations  typify  our  at- 
tributes ]  It  is  perhaps  some  vague,  internal  pre- 
figuring of  that  true  name-giving  which  impels 
certain  minds  to  bestow  upon  their  associates  pet 
names,  nick-names,  names  suggestive  of  charac- 
ter. And  this  spontaneous  prompting  makes  us 
style  the  wise  and  thoughtful  mother  of  a  certain 
orderly  little  household,  "  Prudentia." 

How  is  it  that  Prudentia,  with  a  purse  so  shal- 
low, conducts  the  affairs  of  her  home  department 
with  such  seeming  ease  and  comfort  ?  No  painfully 
obvious  "  managing"  is  apparent.  Her  system  en- 
tails no  constant  thrusting  of  her  economy  in  one's 
face,  no  holding  forth  about  the  necessity  of  saving, 
and  no  parade  of  poverty,  which,  by  the  bye,  is  just 
as  vulgar  as  the  boast  of  riches.  Parade  of  pover- 
ty ?   Yes,  we  use  the  expression  advisedly ;  for  the 

(206) 


Prudentia.  207 

proud  at  heart,  who  ape  humility,  the  naturally 
mean,  who  would  excuse  their  niggardliness,  the 
designing,  who  would  lure  others  into  lavishness 
from  which  they  may  derive  benefit  without  shar- 
ing the  expense,  each,  from  different  motives,  pa- 
rade their  poverty  by  the  constant  ejaculations  of, 
"too  poor!"  "hard  times!"  "can't  afford!"  But 
these  are  words  seldom  syllabled  by  Prudential 
lips. 

We  have  studied  Prudentia,  conned  that  fair 
human  book  in  which  her  rules  of  life  are  writ- 
ten, and  we  think  the  mode  by  which  she  makes 
the  "  two  ends  "  of  that  zone  which  girdles  her  re- 
sources "  meet "  without  leaving  a  hiatus  of  debt, 
may  possibly  benefit  some  of  her  young  sisters  in 
the  world's  vast  family.  Doubtless  there  are  a 
few  among  them  who  would  gladly  deserve  the 
name  we  bestow  upon  her,  if  they  only  knew  the 
art  by  which  it  could  be  won.  It  is  for  these  alone 
that  we  throw  out  a  few  hints  which  may  serve  as 
a  clew  to  Prudentia's  secret. 

In  the  first  place,  Prudentia,  when  she  feels  dis- 
posed to  make  a  purchase,  pauses  and  asks  herself 
the  important  questions,  "  Is  it  actually  needed  1 " 
"  Can  we  do  without  it?"  If  the  voice  within  re- 
plies, "  It  can  be  dispensed  with,"  she  is  made 
aware  that  the  article  was  desired  to  gratify  taste/ 
or  promote  comfort,  or  perhaps  give  pleasure,  and 
not  because  it  was  urgently  requisite.  Before  she 
relinquishes  or  appropriates  the  wished-for  object 


208  Prudentia. 

she  puts  another  query  to  her  inner  self:  "  Is  there 
nothing  positively  necessary  which  must  be  fore- 
gone if  I  permit  myself  this  gratification  I  "  The 
answer  to  that  second  inquiry  always  decides 
whether  it  is  wise,  prudent,  right,  to  allow  herself 
(or  others,  far  dearer  than  herself,)  the  proposed 
indulgence. 

She  never  buys  anything  simply  because  it  is 
"  so  cheap  !"  and  she  "  may  want  it  sometime  or 
other."  She  expects  every  gold,  or  silver,  or  even 
copper  coin  within  her  tiny  purse  to  bring  its  full 
value  in  exchange.  Yet  she  often  pays  high  pri- 
ces for  articles  of  good  quality,  because  she  knows 
they  will  long  outlast  inferior  materials  and  are 
cheaper  in  the  end. 

She  never  wastes  anything,  never  throws  airy- 
thing  away.  Articles  that  have  done  faithful  ser- 
vice in  one  form  are  metamorphosed  by  her  magi- 
cal touches  into  some  new  shape.  The  ingenuity 
with  which  these  changes  are  wrought  out  excites 
our  wonder.  Unfaded  bits  of  an  old  carpet  grow 
into  footstools  and  bedside  rugs;  the  well-worn 
dress  re-appears  in  neat  aprons  ;  stockings  that 
had  "  said  their  prayers "  are  razeed  down,  and 
become  quite  fresh  on  tinier  feet ;  chintz  window 
curtains  which,  in  their  advanced  age,  cannot  stand 
the  betrayals  of  too  strong  light,  resume  their  good 
looks  when  produced  as  furniture  covers ;  scraps, 
and  odds  and  ends  of  all  kinds,  serve  for  pretty 
patch-work.     But  we  forbear  to  swell  the  list  of 


Prudentia.  209 

Prudentia's  skilful  transformations.  After  all,  she 
is  but  obeying  one  of  the  great  laws  that  rule  the 
universe.  Does  not  all  creation  wear  new  forms 
and  assume  new  uses  every  hour  that  the  world 
travels  on  its  starry  way?  Does  not  the  very  hum- 
blest withered  leaf  enrich  the  ground  upon  which 
it  falls,  and  nourish  the  new  flower  springing  from 
the  bosom  of  the  earth  ?  When  Prudentia  can  find 
no  further  employment  for  articles  that  have  un 
dergone  various  transmutations  in  her  own  house 
hold,  they  are  carefully  stored  away  for  the  needy, 
who  never  knock  at  her  door  in  vain. 

When  she  has  anything  to  accomplish  which 
seems  very  desirable,  but  which  will  cause  a  large 
outlay  (we  mean  large  for  her),  she  first  sits  down, 
and  literally,  in  accordance  with  the  Scripture  in- 
junction, "  counts  the  cost "  before  she  attempts  to 
rear  the  fabric. 

She  is  in  the  highest  degree  scrupulous  in  re- 
gard to  debt.  She  makes  no  bill  that  can  be  rea- 
sonably avoided.  When  she  permits  herself  to 
have  an  account,  it  is  always  under  circumstances 
which  actual  necessity,  rather  than  convenience, 
renders  allowable.  She  keeps  a  memorandum  of 
everything  she  spends  and  everything  she  owes. 
She  bears  each  obligation  incurred  constantly  in 
her  mind,  fixes  the  time  and  the  mode  of  its  dis- 
charge, and  often  cancels  it  before  payment  is  so- 
licited. She  would  not  allow  herself,  or  the  members 
of  her  household,  a  luxury  while  a  single  creditor 

18* 


210  Prudentia. 

waited  his  due.  She  is  by  nature  liberal  as  the 
sunshine  ;  she  experiences  a  supreme  degree  of 
internal  delight  in  bestowing  charity  —  promoting 
the  comfort  or  pleasure  of  others  —  especially  in 
giving  presents ;  but  even  this  bountiful  and  beau- 
tiful impulse  she  controls  when  she  owes  a  debt 
for  which  no  provision  has  been  made.  She  says 
to  herself,  "  This  money  is  not  mine,  it  belongs  to 
my  creditor.  It  would  be  a  happiness  to  be  able 
to  use  it  or  to  give  it  away,  but  how  can  I  use  or 
give  that  which,  strictly  speaking,  is  not  my 
own  \ " 

Then  in  her  management  within  doors,  how  often 
her  tact  supplies  the  place  of  luxury  !  She  plans 
her  breakfasts,  and  dinners,  and  suppers  with  such 
forethought!  She  knows  that  an  uncostly  dish, 
skilfully  prepared,  will  be  as  palatable  as  an  ex- 
pensive delicacy ;  and  to  ensure  that  the  former 
will  prove  an  acceptable  substitute  for  the  latter, 
she  superintends  its  cooking  herself.  Her  simple, 
daintily  concocted  "  Brown  Betsey,"  or  clear,  well- 
flavored  cornina,  leave  no  desire  for  rich  calves' 
feet  jelly  and  blanc  mange  ;  and  her  unextravagant 
but  Italian-cooked  macaroni  is  often  preferred  to 
the  most  dainty  entremets. 

Then,  as  regards  her  own  dress  and  the  dresses 
of  her  children :  their  exquisitely  fitting  clothes, 
of  well  assorted  colors,  though  of  simplest  materi- 
als, are  more  graceful  and  becoming  than  the 
rustling  silks  and  dashing  satins  of  many  a  friend 


Pruclentia.  211 

wnose  prospects  in  life  are  by  no  means  as  promis- 
ing as  her  own.  But  we  all  know  that  taste  and 
neatness  of  attire  will  at  any  time  surpass  rich- 
ness. 

Strangers  look  at  her  and  exclaim :  "  It  is  per- 
fectly wonderful  how  Prudentia  gets  on  with  only 
one  servant !  And  her  house  always  looks  so  nice  ; 
her  drawing  room  and  library  are  pervaded  by  such 
an  atmosphere  of  taste  !  And  how  comfortably  she 
lives !  How  prettily  she  and  her  children  are  al- 
ways dressed !  Her  husband's  income  must  be 
small,  and  yet  she  does  not  seem  to  be  always 
economizing,  and  raking,  and  scraping,  and  man- 
aging, as  some  people  who  talk  of  nothing  else. 
I  wonder  what  her  secret  is  % " 

Her  secret  lies  in  deserving  the  name  of  Pru- 
dentia. 

She  is  not  afraid  of  work  in  any  of  its  phases. 
Her  own  white  and  beautifully  moulded  hands 
lend  their  aid  to  the  rough,  strong  ones  of  her  ser- 
vant, when  such  help  is  needed,  and  hands  never 
worked  more  deftly  and  rapidly  than  Prudentia's. 
As  for  the  toil,  she  looks  upon  it  as  a  matter  of 
course  that  all  her  moments  are  to  be  used,  and 
feels  it  no  hardship  to  be  constantly  employed. 
All  labor  is  sweetened  by  her  pleasant  thoughts 
and  the  remembrance  of  the  bright  smile  that  will 
flash  over  a  beloved  countenance,  and  beam  lus- 
trously out  from  a  pair  of  dark,  loving  eyes,  when 
her  husband  enters  his  cheerful  home. 


212 


Prudentia. 


"  A  simple,  earnest  life  that  tireless  toils, 
Is  music  in  God's  ear.  " 

And  such  music  ascends  to  heaven  every  day  out' 
of  the  harmonious  movements  of  Prudentia's  ex- 
istence. 


CROAKERS. 


^HIGHLY  proper,  and  pious,  and  thor- 
oughly unexceptionable  person  is  our 
worthy  friend,  Mrs.  Rueful  —  but  oh! 
the  depressing  influence  of  her'  presence  !  Un- 
questionably she  must  carry  an  invisible  supply  of 
"  low  spirits  "  bottled  up  and  stored  in  her  reti- 
cule !  The  cork  is  extracted  by  the  first  word  she 
utters,  and  the  "  blue  demons  "  escape,  and  com- 
placently light  down  upon  her  neighbors'  hearts, 
and  grow  heavier  and  heavier,  where  they  sit,  un- 
til content,  and  hope,  and  mirth,  are  crushed  out 
by  their  incubus-like  weight.  Nor  do  the  impish 
band  take  their  leave  when  she  departs  ;  once  in- 
troduced they  are  apt  to  haunt  the  new  abode  un- 
til it  becomes  a  familiar  resting-place. 

Well  may  one  dread  the  visitations  of  good  Mrs. 
Rueful,  who  leaves  such  enemies  to  peace  behind 
her !  She  glides  into  your  home  with  tread  so  light 
that  you  think,  perforce,  upon  noiseless  footfalls  in 
the  chambers  of  sickness  and  sorrow.  The  steady 
gloom  of  her  countenance  reminds  you  of  an  au- 
tumn sky,  when  the  clouds  thicken  and  darken 

(213) 


214  Croakers. 

with  the  menace  of  "  falling  weather  "  of  incalcu- 
lable duration.  She  takes  your  hand  with  start- 
ling gravity,  sits  down  beside  you  with  a  sigh,  looks 
inquiringly  and  compassionately  into  your  face 
with  misty,  smileless  eyes.  She  speaks  to  you  in 
a  voice  soft  and  plaintive,  that  often  drops  into  a 
a  dolorous  whisper,  and  gives  you  a  sensation  of 
vague  uneasiness.  Her  touch  sends  through  your 
veins  a  cold,  foreboding  shudder  ;  her  gaze  com- 
municates an  indefinable  conviction  that  you  must 
be  an  object  of  pity.  You  may  not  exactly  "  think 
of  your  sins  "  when  Mrs.  Rueful  appears,  but  you 
involuntarily  think  of  your  griefs  —  if  you  have 
any  —  and  who  has  none  % 

Mrs.  Hueful  is  a  prophetic  reader  of  faces,  and 
she  is  constantly  discovering  some  direful  presage 
in  those  of  her  acquaintances.  She  groans  at  the 
sight  of  a  countenance  beaming  with  gayety,  for 
she  is  certain  it  will  shortly  be  clouded  with  sor- 
row. She  dreads  to  hear  a  joyous  laugh,  for  she 
knows  that,  in  the  natural  course  of  events,  it 
must  be  followed  by  a  sob  of  anguish.  She  es- 
chews mirth  because  it  is  the  forerunner  of  afflic- 
tion. If  she  sees  a  friend  in  a  high  state  of  health, 
she  solemnly  assures  him  that  he  is  threatened 
with  a  fit  of  illness.  In  vain  the  amazed  hearer 
declares  that  he  never  felt  better  in  his  life  ;  she 
tells  him  that  is  precisely  the  way  people  feel  just 
before  they  are  stricken  down ;  and  finally  per- 
suades  him   into  fancying  that   the   rose   on  his 


Croakers.  215 

cheek  is  a  hectic  flush,  his  robustness  the  sign  of 
alarming  plethora,  his  vivacity  the  excitement  of 
fever,  and  his  general  healthfulness  a  premonitory 
symptom  of  disease. 

Mrs.  Eueful  always  has  a  "  pet  sorrow  "  of  her 
own ;  she  could  not  live  without  one  !  She  nurses 
this  darling  grief,  hugs  it  to  her  heart,  tricks  it 
out  with  lugubrious  semblances,  parades  it  before 
the  public  eye,  exaggerates  it,  and  now  and  then 
changes  it  for  a  lesser  or  a  greater  trouble  ;  but 
without  an  incurable  woe  she  could  not  exist ! 
Her  strong-minded,  matter-of-fact  friends  affirm 
that  her  mighty  miseries  resemble  the  sorrows  of 
my  Lord  Plumcake ;  that  a  goodly  share  of  this 
world's  blessings  has  been  awarded  her,  and  that 
she  ought  to  be  a  very  grateful,  contented,  happy 
person.  But  Mrs.  Eueful  is  vexed  to  the  heart  at 
such  an  assertion.  How  can  she  be  happy,  she 
inquires,  in  a  tone  of  irritable  reproach,  when  she 
knows  that  countless  calamities  are  in  store  for 
her  %  when  she  is  haunted  by  hydra-headed  shad- 
ows of  anticipated  misfortune  ?  by  numberless 
swords  suspended  from  hairs  over  her  hapless 
head?  by  perpetual  earthquakes  rumbling  omi- 
nously beneath  her  very  feet  % 

Mrs.  Eueful's  sun  is  under  a  constant  eclipse, 
and  she  fairly  revels  in  the  dark  side  of  creation. 
If  a  friend  is  ill,  her  imagination  unceremoniously 
lays  him  in  his  coffin ;  for  no  figure  of  Hope  sits 
at  the  gate  of  her  heart  to   open  its  portals  to  the 


216  Croakers. 

possibility  of  his  recovery.  And  when,  now  and 
then,  her  prediction  is  verified,  and  a  beloved  one 
is  freed  from  anguish,  and  called  to  joy,  Mrs.  Rue- 
ful makes  the  most  of  the  affliction.  She  never 
bates  an  inch  of  the  strictest  forms  of  conventional 
mourning.  She  is  frantic!  in  her  lamentations,  and 
encourages  the  most  violent  demonstrations  of  grief 
in  others.  She  recoils  from  the  faintest  approach 
of  consolation.  Her  gaze  is  bent  steadfastly  down- 
ward to  the  grave,  and  the  mouldering  ashes  that 
lie  there ;  her  eyes  resolutely  refuse  to  look  up- 
wards and  contemplate  the  enfranchised  spirit,  re- 
joicing in  its  newly  awarded  felicity.  The  "  garb 
of  woe"  is  her  favorite  attire,  a  knell  is  the  sweet- 
music  to  her  ears  ;  and  if  she  wore  an  ornament  to 
correspond  with  her  most  cherished  state  of  mind, 
it  could  only  be  a  miniature  death's  head,  or  cross- 
bones,  fantastically  wrought.  And  yet  she  will  tell 
you  that  she  has  made  open  profession  of  Chris- 
tianity, and  that  she  believes  in  Heaven  !  Certes, 
she  never  acts  as  though  any  of  her  departed  friends 
had  gone  there. 

The  dread  of  accidents  keeps  Mrs.  Rueful  in  a 
perpetual  fever  of  anxiety  or  chill  of  terror.  She 
never  thinks  of  ships  without  shipwrecks  ;  steam- 
boats always  conjure  up  an  image  of  bursting  boil- 
ers, and  dismembered  limbs  flying  through  the  air  ; 
railroads  are  synonymous  with  crushed  heads  and 
mangled  bodies  ;  every  mode  of  locomotion  is  the 
medium  of  lurking  peril,  every  place  of  rest  the 


Croakers.  217 

abode  of  a  concealed  danger.  Mrs.  Rueful  firmly 
believes  that  earthquakes  and  tornadoes  will  spread 
to  every  part  of  the  world,  and  no  being  living 
will  escape  their  destroying  fury.  When  war 
commences,  she  is  certain  that  it  will  extend  over 
the  whole  globe,  and  that  peace  can  never  be  re- 
stored. She  is  sure  that  lightning  always  strikes. 
She  is  constantly  on  the  look-out  for  fatal  epidem- 
ics, and  beholds  cholera  and  yellow  fever  taking 
rapid  strides  toward  her  own  especial  habitation. 
No  locality  is  salubrious,  no  haven  safe.  Country 
roads,  to  her,  are  infested  by  imaginary  snakes, 
phantom  mad  dogs,  and  shadowy  crazed  bulls ; 
and  city  streets  teem  with  risks  too  manifold  to 
enumerate.  Robbers  dog  her  steps  by  day. and 
shake  her  shutters  at  night.  She  burns  her  own 
home  and  the  houses  of  her  friends  (in  fancy)  at 
least  once  per  week,  and  determinedly  buries  her- 
self and  them  in  the  ruins.  To  be  sure,  they  all 
rise  again,  phce nix-like,  from  the  ashes,  but  only 
to  go  periodically  through  the  same  illusory  proc- 
ess of  annihilation. 

She  has  no  faith  in  palmy  days  and  prosperous 
times  ;  indeed,  she  totally  ignores  prosperity.  To 
her  thinking,  trade  never  thrives,  professions  mean 
beggary,  art  is  at  a  dead  stand-still,  literature  is, 
and  ever  will  be,  stagnant.  The  rich  are  on  the 
verge  of  bankruptcy,  the  poor  are  daily  growing 
poorer;  everything  and  everybody  is  going  to 
speedy  destruction. 

19 


218  Croakers. 

Then,  Mrs.  Rueful  has  such  a  propensity  to 
dream !  And  she  teaches  others  to  dream ;  and 
she  interprets  their  visions  and  her  own,  and  the 
prognostics  always  bode  evil.  Good  omens  there 
are  none ;  there  is  no  "  good  time  coming,"  ac- 
cording to  her  creed.  It  is  useless  to  remind  Mrs. 
Rueful  that  in  these  days  of  spiritual  disorder, 
dreams  are  chiefly  the  whisperings  of  fantastical 
spirits,  and  that  if  there  are  any  exceptions  to  this 
rule,  there  is  no  accredited,  infallible,  heaven- 
illumined  expounder  given  to  the  world.  Mrs. 
Rueful  will  quote  Scripture  to  prove  that  dreams 
are  of  more  importance  than  positive  realities,  and 
will  give  you  abundant  instances  testifying  to  the 
dexterity  of  the  key  by  which  she  opens  those 
secret  chambers  of  marvel,  and  drags  forth  their 
hidden  skeletons. 

Mrs.  Rueful's  faith  in  signs  and  wonders  exceeds 
that  of  any  ancient  Roman.  It  is  a  rock  upon 
which  she  leans  with  the  complacent  conviction 
that  it  can  never  be  shaken.  The  spilling  of  salt, 
breaking  of  looking-glasses,  ticking  of  death  watch- 
es, sitting  down  of  thirteen  at  table,  forming  of 
winding  sheets  in  candles,  passing  under  ladders, 
lowing  of  cows,  moaning  of  dogs,  etc.,  etc.,  are  not 
trivial  and  accidental  occurrences,  but  events,  to 
her  mind,  pregnant  with  coming  calamity.  She 
is  always  peering  into  the  future,  always  predict- 
ing, always  foreseeing ;  and  not  only  seeing 
"  through  a  glass  darkly,"  but  beholding  all  the 
world  covered  with  sable. 


Croakers.  219 

In  short,  Mrs.  Rueful  is  a  walking  cloud,  in  fe- 
male guise ;  a  perambulating  wet-blanket  of  wo- 
manhood, whose  especial  vocation  it  is  to  convince 
the  world  that  life  is  but  a  compound  of  miseries, 
a  thing  made  up  of  groans  and  sighs,  a  burden  ever 
accumulating  in  weight,  until  it  breaks  the  back  that 
bears  it ;  and  that  disasters  and  afflictions  are  the 
only  rational  anticipations  in  which  humanity  can 
safely  indulge. 

Is  there  no  philanthropist  who  will  undertake 
the  task  of  reasoning  with  Mrs.  Rueful  ?  Will  no 
one  prove  to  her  that  if  any  man  ever  actually  en- 
countered one  half  the  evils  he  dreaded,  and  ex- 
pected, and  fretted  over,  no  man's  fardel  would  be 
endurable'?  Will  no  one  tell  her  that  there  is 
wealth,  which  can  meet  no  bankruptcy,  in  a  pa- 
tient spirit  ]  that  a  serene  temperament  is  an  aegis 
impenetrable  to  misfortune  \  that  a  trustful  nature 
is  a  weapon  in  the  hand  of  Faith  to  disarm  Sor- 
row ?  Will  no  one  persuade  our  doleful -vis  aged 
friend  that  there  is  religion  in  a  contented  heart, 
and  gratitude  in  a  cheerful  face,  and  that  he  upon 
whom  Heaven  smiles  approvingly,  will  reflect  the 
brightness  of  that  radiant  token  upon  all  the 
world  % 


THE  GAME  OF  SCANDAL. 


AVE  you  ever  played  at  "  Scandal," 
friend  ?  Pure  must  the  heart  be  that  feels 
no  sudden  pang  of  conscience  at  that 
bomb-like  question.  But  the  startling  query,  in  this 
instance,  mildly  refers  to  a  game  called  "Scandal" 
the  delight  of  juveniles  ;'  too  joyous  to  be  very  wise." 
Yet  is  there  wisdom  and  warning  enough  in  the 
game  itself  to  force  the  conclusion  that  its  origin 
was  in  the  brain  of  some  sage  satirist,  who  hid  a 
sober  moral  with  a  sportive  mask. 

The  players  sit  in  a  row  ;  the  one  at  the  head 
whispers  to  his  neighbor  a  communication  concern- 
ing some  absent  friend  ;  the  neighbor  whispers  the 
news,  as  he  hears  it,  to  the  one  next  to  him,  who 
conveys  the  intelligence,  still  in  a  whisper,  to  the 
one  nearest ;  thus  it  is  imparted  again  and  again 
until  it  reaches  the  end  of  the  line.  As  the  sen- 
tence is  transmitted  from  mouth  to  mouth,  it  is 
unintentionally,  unavoidably  altered ;  the  words 
have  been  incorrectly  caught  by  the  listening  ear ; 
with  each  repetition  they  undergo  a  change  ;  by 
the  time  the  sentence  has  travelled  to  its  journey's 

(220) 


The  Game  of  Scandal  221 

close  it  has  passed  through  so  many  strange  muta- 
tions that  it  bears  not  the  slightest  resemblance  to 
the  original  phrase.  Every  one  is  requested,  be- 
ginning at  the  last  hearer,  to  declare  what  informa- 
tion concerning  Mr. or  Mrs. or  Miss 

was  confided  to  him,  and  lo  !  through  these  singu- 
lar transitions,  the  harmless  assertion  has  become  a 
monstrous  slander  !  This  "  scandal "  was  obviously 
the  offspring  of  inadvertent,  unconscious  misrepre- 
sentation. As  the  story  is  traced  back  through  all 
its  crooked  paths,  the  most  hilarious  merriment  is 
excited  by  its  odd  metamorphoses. 

The  young  play  this  game  in  jest,  for  the  sake 
of  the  mirth  it  awakens ;  their  seniors  are  playing 
it  in  sober,  fatal  earnest,  all  the  world  over,  and 
like  them,  for  the  sake  of  mere  amusement.     Ay, 
playing  it  daily  without  self-reproach  —  playing  it 
without  dreaming  that  they  are  "  coiners  of  scandal 
and  clippers  of   reputation ;  "  playing    it  without 
reflecting  that  their  game  can  produce  more  danger- 
ous consequences  than  the  sport  of  the  children  ! 
■    Let  us  not  confound  these  comparatively  innocent 
scandalmongers  with    that  venomous    class  whose 
adder-stings    are    aimed    with    malicious  purpose, 
whose  Upas  breath  withers  the  freshest  flowers  of 
Innocence  with  its  invisible  touch ;  whose  defiled 
hands  stir  up  the  mud  in  purest  streams  of  life  ; 
whose  splenetic  natures  are  constantly  goaded  by 
Envy  and  armed  with  the  deadly  weapons  of  Hatred. 
Against  those,  the  sagest  poet  that  the  sun  ever 

19* 


222  The  Game  of  Scandal. 

shone  upon,  tells  that  there  is  no  segis  that  can  pro- 
tect even  the  immaculate. 


"  No  might,  no  greatness  in  mortality- 
Can  censure  'scape  —  back-wounding  calumny 
The  whitest  virtue  strikes.     What  king  so  strong 
Can  tie  the  gall  up  in  the  slanderous  tongue  ?  " 

Since  the  world  has  no  social  Perseus  who  can 
lift  an  invincible  sword  to  slay  those  Gorgons,  they 
are  not  our  theme. 

To  them  the  players  in  the  world's  great  game 
of  "  scandal  "  bear  little  resemblance.  The  latter 
are  vivacious,  courteous,  agreeable,  respectable 
members  of  society.  If  the  whole  truth  must  be 
spoken,  we  are  bound  to  admit  that  these  graceful 
babblers  are  chiefly  of  the  gentler  sex. 

Since  the  world  began,  women  must  have  had  an 
especial  gift  of  speech,  for  the  very  name  of  "  Eve," 
according  to  Buxtorf  s  Hebrew  Lexicon,  is  derived 
from  a  root  which  signifies  "  to  talk ; "  thus  her 
temptations  to  indulge  in  idle  strictures  must  be 
greater  than  those  of  her  more  taciturn  brother. 

But  the  amiable  newsmongers,  who  are  playing 
this  "  game  of  scandal  "  with  honied  lips  and  smi- 
ing  eyes,  mean  no  harm.  Theirs  are  random 
arrows  shot  in  sport,  yet  the  shaft  scathes,  be  the 
hand  by  which  it  was  aimed  ever  so  white  !  Some 
charming,  giddy-pated  creature,  with  unbridled 
levity  of  tongue,  gives  breath  to  a  good  story  (not 
particularly  good  natured),  about  a  certain  poor, 


The  Game  of  Scandal.  223 

dear  friend  of  hers  ;  the  news  is  whispered  in  the 
ear  of  the  next  neighbor,  kind  "  Mrs.  Clackitt,"  and 
being  imperfectly  heard,  or  not  thoroughly  under- 
stood, undergoes  an  unintentional  change  (as  in 
the  famous  game  we  have  cited).  Mrs.  Clackitt, 
with  eager  volubility,  confides  the  secret  to  the  first 
person  she  meets,  good  Mrs.  Grim.  Mrs.  Grim 
chances  to  be  of  a  satirical  turn  of  mind,  and  the 
Tale  assumes  a  sarcastic  countenance  ;  it  is  wafted 
onward  until  it  reaches  Miss  Balm,  a  very  humane 
and  tender-hearted  gossip ;  in  her  sympathetic 
bosom  it  is  weighed  down  with  such  a  pressure  of 
pity,  that  the  features  of  the  travelling  Story  are 
smoothed  into  new  shape.  A  few  more  steps  on- 
ward, a  few  more  pleasant  touches  from  rosy  lips 
and  snowy  hands,  and  the  original  lineaments  are 
wholly  obliterated. 

But  is  this  all  ?  What  becomes  of  the  heroine 
of  the  game  %  How  will  she  break  loose  from  the 
tangled  web  woven  by  mere  idle  talk  \  Whither 
will  she  fly  from  the  stabbing  of  inconsequent 
tongues  \  If  her  lacerated  reputation  ever  heal, 
will  not  those  wounds  leave  a  disfiguring  scar  for 
life! 

Fairest  prospects  have  been  hopelessly  blighted, 
strongest  ties  of  friendship  dissevered,  love  trans- 
formed to  hate,  hearts  broken,  homes  made  desolate 
through  the  daily  playing  of  this  merry  game  of 
"  scandal "  at  our  firesides,  in  our  walks,  in  our 
social  gatherings.     The  most  zealous  player,  having 


224  The  Game  of  Scandal. 

no  evil  end  in  view,  if  told  that  he  has  dealt  a  blow 
to  a  friend,  or  done  a  neighbor  a  wrong,  would 
meet  the  charge,  indignant  and  aghast.  Yet  the 
game  goes  on  bravely  from  day  to  day  !  We  all 
play  it,  quite  innocent  of  malice  ;  give  a  buffet 
to  the  flying  tale  to  send  it  onward,  half  expiring 
with  laughter  at  the  quaint,  fantastic  shapes  it 
assumes. 

Without  presuming  to  don  the  solemn  robes  of 
the  social  reformer,  which  might  float  with  as  little 
grace  as  the  usurped  lion's  skin  in  the  fable,  may 
we  not  venture  to  suggest  an  antidote  to  the  bane 
of  this  popular,  death-dealing  game  ?  We  fear  it 
is  one  almost  too  simple  to  strike  ;  yet  simplest 
herbs  have  counteracted  deadliest  poisons.  It  lies 
in  resolutely  setting  our  faces  against  crediting  any 
injurious  rumor  by  the  reflection  that  the  story  is, 
in  all  probability,  an  illustration  of  the  marvellous 
metamorphoses  wrought  by  that  magical  game  of 
"  scandal  "  which  we,  and  all  the  world,  are  merrily 
playing. 


GRUMBLERS. 


ANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN,  in  one 
of  those  tales  of  marvel,  by  which  he  has 
wrought  an  attractive  setting  of  fiction 
around  a  gem  of  truth,  describes  a  magical  mirror 
of  diabolical  invention,  which  distorted  and  rendered 
hideous  the  fairest  objects  it  reflected.  When  the 
mirror  was  fractured,  certain  individuals  gathered 
up  the  fragments  and  made  spectacles  of  them,  and 
henceforth  viewed  all  creation  through  a  perverted 
medium. 

These  are  the  malcontents  of  the  present  day. 
An  unbroken  frown  keeps  the  gloomy  glasses  fixed 
across  their  brows.  And  the  fault-finding  instinct 
is  quickened  to  such  a  degree  in  the  wearers  that 
they  daily  endure  a  self-imposed  martyrdom.  Let 
them  walk  through  the  smoothest,  greenest,  choicest 
paths  of  life,  the  thorns  of  discontent  are  always 
piercing  their  feet,  and  all  the  burs  in  the  lanes  are 
sure  to  cling  to  their  garments.  Let  the  sun  shine 
ever  so  brightly,  no  light  is  received  into  their  ray- 
less  eyes,  and  yet  they  discover  and  magnify  all  the 
motes  in  its  beams.     They  move  about  with  lugu- 

(225) 


226  Grumblers. 

brious  countenances  and  ascetic  speech,  as  though 
a  perpetual  nightmare  sat  upon  their  souls.  They 
pour  the  cold  water  of  their  presence  upon  the 
faintest  flame  of  enthusiasm  that  dares  to  betray  its 
existence,  and  seem  to  be  tortured  by  a  frantic  de- 
sire to  extinguish  all  the  Promethean  fire  in  the 
world. 

Southey  paints  a  genial  class  of  beings  who  are 
"  willing  to  be  pleased,  and  thankful  for  being 
pleased,  without  thinking  it  necessary  that  they 
should  be  able  to  parse  their  pleasure,  like  a  lesson, 
or  give  a  rule  or  reason  why  they  are  pleased." 
The  grumblers,  in  a  precisely  opposite  spirit,  set 
out  upon  their  compulsory  journey  through  life. 
They  start  with  the  conviction  that  the  universe 
holds  nothing  that  is  worthy  to  excite  pleasure,  and 
consequently  form  a  religious  determination  that 
they  will  not  be  cheated  into  a  pleasurable  sensa- 
tion. 

They  are  especially  subject  to  all  skyey  influences, 
and  the  weather  is  an  everlasting  source  of  discom- 
fort to  them.  There  is  always  too  much  rain  falling, 
or  the  sky  is  too  clear,  the  drought  too  protracted, 
the  cold  too  bracing,  or  the  heat  too  debilitatiug. 

If  some  more  contented  and  confiding  spirit 
meekly  points  out  that  rain  may  benefit  the  crops, 
or  promote  the  verdure  of  the  clover  fields  ;  that  the 
drought  may  be  needful  just  at  that  season  to  dry 
up  certain  marshes  and  prevent  disease  ;  and  mildly 
suggests  that  the  Omnipotent  Being,  whose  laws  of 


Grumblers.  227 

order  have  ruled  the  universe  for  so  many  ages,  and 
have  kept  the  countless  stars  in  their  orbits,  yet 
have  allowed  no  sparrow  to  fall  to  the  ground  by 
chance,  may  possibly  know,  in  His  infinite  presci- 
ence, somewhat  better  than  narrow-visioned, 
sense-circumscribed  mortals,  when  it  is  well  for  the 
rain  to  descend  or  the  sun  to  shine  ;  the  grumbler 
shakes  his  head ;  he  is  inaccessible  to  any  such 
weak  and  visionary  argument.  He  entertains  the 
belief  that  he  could  have  ordered  many  of  these 
matters  more  judiciously  and  more  satisfactorily  for 
men's  comfort.  He  is  quite  convinced  that  all  the 
pumpkins  should  have  grown  upon  oak  trees,  and 
the  little  acorns  upon  the  earth. 

It  never  occurs  to  him  that  there  is  even  a  tinge 
of  profanity  in  this  rebellious  and  egotistic  spirit ; 
for  the  grumbler  is  often  a  profoundly  pious  man. 
But  fault-finding  with  his  All-wise  Master,  and 
railing  at  his  inoffensive  neighbor,  are  no  sins  ac- 
cording to  his  creed.  He  ignores  the  existence  of 
Charity's  veiling  cloak,  and  eagerly  bares  the  sus- 
pected shoulder  of  a  companion  that  he  may  reveal 
the  hidden  brand  which  affords  him  a  sufficient 
pretext  to 

"  Abhor 
In  Christ's  name  meekly." 

Besides  these  Don  Quixote  malcontents,  who  are 
waging  perpetual  war  with  shadows  and  distorted 
realities,  there  exists  an  inferior  race  of  grumblers, 


228  Grumblers. 

a  petty,  fretful,  carping  set,  who  expend  the 
whole  strength  of  their  intellects  in  quarrelling 
about  trifles,  and  magnifying  straws  of  resistance 
into  iron  bars  of  opposition.  They  are  afflicted 
by  the  most  subtle  and  intangible  torments,  and 
pass  their  lives  in  ceaseless  lamentation  over  their 
hourly  and  irremediable  trials.  Their  clothes  can 
never  by  any  persuasion  be  induced  to  fit ;  all  the 
gnats  in  the  world  are  in  league  to  sting  them  ;  they 
never  fail  to  stumble  over  the  smallest  stone  in  their 
way,  and  their  waspish  buz  zings  of  discontent  tor- 
ture the  ears  of  serener  beings  without  respite. 

One  of  the  strangest  phases  in  the  lives  of  these 
grumblers,  is  the  miraculous  change  often  effected 
by  a  great  affliction  ;  the  beneficent  influence  of  a 
positive  calamity.  It  suddenly  awakens  them  to 
the  sense  that  there  is  something  in  the  world  more 
important  than  their  own  discomfort  and  the  short- 
comings of  their  neighbors.  They  rise  up  from 
the  pressure  of  a  heavy  sorrow  as  though  strength- 
ened by  its  very  weight,  and  fling  off  all  lesser  cares 
as  the  lion  shakes  the  dewdrops  from  his  mane. 
By  a  single  effort  they  arm  themselves  against  all 
the  minor  miseries  that  agonized  their  lives,  and, 
endure  the  actual  affliction  with  marvellous  patience. 
The  irritable, i contentious  grumbler,  who  groaned 
at  the  tickling  of  a  feather,  and  half-expired  at  the 
prick  of  a  pin,  bows  meekly  beneath  the  hard  blow, 
and  seems  for  the  first  time  to  be  impressed  with 
the  conviction  that  the  stroke  was  dealt  by  a  Hand 


Grumblers.  229 

divine.  Especially  "  sweet  are  the  uses  of  Adver- 
sity "  to  such  temperaments,  and  on  them  the  very 
greatest  blessing  we  can  invoke  is  "  May  a  heavy, 
but  chastening  misfortune,  fall  quickly  upon  their 
heads !  " 

20 


MRS.  GRUNDY'S  MISSION. 


>T  is  a  favorite  theory  of  an  eccentric  spec- 
ulator upon  men  and  manners,  that  "  all 
sorts  of  people"  are  needed  to  make  up  the 
social  elements  of  a  habitable  and  agreeable  world  ; 
that  the  greater  the  variety  of  temperaments,  cus- 
toms and  opinions,  congregated  upon  the  globe,  the 
more  likelihood  there  is  of  the  arrival  of  that  "  good 
time  "  which  Mackay  has  tunefully  predicted  as  cer- 
tainly "  coming."  Moreover,  the  moralizing  indi- 
vidual, above  mentioned,  maintains  that  every  man, 
woman,  and  child  —  though  the  man  may  be  com- 
monplace, the  woman  insignificant,  the  child  un 
enfant  terrible  —  has,  in  that  same  pleasant  world, 
his  or  her  especial  "  mission."  We  use  the  much 
ridiculed  expression  very  reluctantly,  and  with  a 
painful  consciousness  that  it  has  hopelessly  fallen 
from  its  high  position  in  the  English  vocabulary. 

Upon  reflection,  we  are  inclined  seriously  to  agree 
with  the  philosophic  theorist  who  puts  forth  the 
views,  concerning  the  world's  requisite  occupants, 
which  we  have  quoted. 

The  supernal  powers,  whose  appointed  office  it 

(230) 


Mrs.   Grundy  s  Mission.  231 

is  to  constantly  influence  men's  actions,  must  re- 
quire an  endless  variety  of  media  to  effect  the  good 
works  of  which  they  are  the  invisible  agents.  Un- 
like temperaments  must  be  acted  upon  in  a  dissim- 
ilar manner,  and  diverse  instruments  must  be  used 
to  carve  different  materials. 

If  the  rarest  diamond  be  unskilfully  polished,  the 
brilliancy  of  which  it  is  capable  will  not  be  called 
forth.  The  full  lustre  of  the  Koh-i-noor  was  only 
revealed  after  the  labor  of  weeks  and  the  use  of  a 
horse-power  of  vast  strength  to  effect  its  cutting. 
There  are  brilliant  minds  whose  highest  sparkle 
can  only  be  developed  by  an  equally  powerful,  yet 
fine  and  laborious,  process. 

Wordsworth  has  given  us  an  illustration  of  a 
wholly  opposite  class  in  the  matter-of-fact  Peter 
Bell.  Peter,  into  whose  heart  nature  could  never 
find  a  way,  although  he  "  roved  amid  her  vales  and 
streams,  green  woods  and  hollow  dells,"  —  Peter, 
who  could  not  look  "  from  nature  up  to  nature's 
God,"  who  saw  in  the  primrose  by  the  river's  brim 
a  yellow  primrose  and  "  nothing  more,"  needed  the 
shock  of  a  dead  man's  ghastly  face  upturned  to  him 
in  the  clear  stream,  and  the  lesson  taught  by  an 
ass's  patient,  loving  watchfulness  over  his  drowned 
master,  to  stir  a  pulse  of  his  emotional  nature,  or 
lift  his  heart  towards  the  Omnipotent  who  endowed 
that  ass  with  its  strange  instinct  of  devotion. 

Had  not  this  poor  ass  a  "  mission  "  to  perform  for 
Peter  %     And  had  not  Peter,  after  the  awakening  of 


232  Mrs.  Grundy's  Mission. 

his  spirit  through  this  humble  medium,  his  "  mis- 
sion "  to  discharge  among  his  hardened  comrades  ? 

We  are  apt  to  look  at  the  odd,  inharmonious, 
placeless  individuals  that  float  through  the  great 
stream  of  existence,  and  irreverently  wonder  why 
they  were  sent  to  occupy  space  in  a  world  which 
they  seemed  unfitted  either  to  benefit  or  adorn, 
and  where  they  are  evidently  not  in  the  least  at 
home.  But  be  sure,  they  all  have  their  "  mission." 
We  may  laugh  at  them,  or  turn  our  backs  on  them, 
or  dread  them  because  they  invariably  render  the 
locality  which  they  inhabit,  uncomfortable,  but 
angel-hands  are  bending  even  these  unshapely 
waifs  into  the  performance  of  use. 

Take, for  instance,  the  much-abused,  much-feared, 
ever-shunned,  yet  ubiquitous  Mrs.  Grundy.  We 
admit  that  she  is  a  very  offensive,  meddling  person  ; 
that  she  is  impertinently  clairwyante  in  discovering 
more  of  people's  affairs  than  they  know  themselves ; 
that  she  is  a  perfect  Draco  in  crinolines  for  laying 
down  cruel  laws ;  that  she  creates  most  admired 
confusion  by  her  interpretations  of  seemingly  harm- 
less actions  ;  that  she  boldly  startles  young  maidens 
with  the  news  of  their  betrothal  before  the  favored 
lover  has  spoken ;  that  she  unceremoniously  lifts 
the  cap  from  the  smoothed  locks  of  the  unconsoled 
widow,  and  places  a  bridal  chaplet  in  its  place ; 
that  she  frightens  the  miser  with  stories  of  his 
hoarded  wealth,  and  confounds  the  prodigal  enter- 
tainer with  hints  of  his  suspected  poverty ;  that  she 


Mrs,   Grundy's  Mission.  233 

publishes  the  charily  concealed  privations  andpinch- 
ings,  and  scrapings  of  the  strugglers  to  "  keep  up 
appearances,"  and  makes  known  all  the  vanity,  and 
ingratitude  and  malice,  envy  and  hatred  that  come 
within  her  ken,  and  doubles  the  actual  amount  — 
in  short,  that  she  is  a  very  indecorous  and  trouble- 
some individual ;  yet  even  Mrs.  Grundy  has  an 
unquestionable  "  mission." 

Many  a  shrew  softens  her  shrill  tones,  lest  they 
should  reach  Mrs.  Grundy's  quick  ears.  Many  a 
husband  puts  a  check  upon  unseemly  inclinations 
from  the  fear  that  Mrs.  Grundy  should  trumpet 
his  lapses  to  the  world.  Many  a  youth  and  many 
a  maiden,  whose  feet  no  reverence  for  God's  com- 
mands could  preserve  from  wandering  in  the  "  prim- 
rose path  of  dalliance,"  is  frightened  back  into  the 
beaten  ways  of  safety  and  propriety  by  the  dread 
of  Mrs.  Grundy's  finger  pointed  at  them  —  the  shiv- 
ering fear  that  seizes  them  at  the  thought  of  being 
arraigned  before  Mrs.  Grundy's  awful  tribunal. 

We  are  indebted  to  the  continual  surveillance,  the 
invisible  perambulations  of  Mrs.  Grundy  in  our 
most  secluded  haunts,  for  the  outside  respectability 
of  at  least  one-  third  of  the  community.  There  are 
consciences  to  which  no  avenues  have  ever  been 
discovered,  save  the  unseen  pathway  that  Mrs. 
Grundy  fearlessly  treads. 

Therefore  are  wTe  impressed  with  the  conviction 
that  our  theoretic  friend  has  arrived  at  a  wise  con- 
clusion ;  that  it  does  take  an  incongruous  medley 
20* 


234  Mrs.   Grundy  s  Missio?i. 

of  characters,  minds,  and  hearts,  to  make  up  a  tol- 
erably respectable  world ;  that  every  man  has  his 
u  mission  ; "  that  consequently  Mrs.  Grundy,  with  all 
her  imperfections  on  her  head,  has  been  intrusted 
with  one  of  the  most  important  "  missions,"  and 
that  the  garrulous  old  lady,  who  exerts  such  un- 
bounded power  in  regulating  the  affairs  of  the 
universe,  instead  of  being  denounced  and  hunted 
out  of  "  good  society,"  ought  to  be  canonized  as  a 
public  benefactress. 


TACTLESS  PEOPLE. 


E  believe  it  is  generally  admitted  that  the 
most  agreeable  associates,  in  the  every- 
day intercourse  of  society,  are  those  who 
put  us  in  a  good  humor  with  ourselves.  Tactless 
people  have  a  wonderful  faculty  of  effecting  the 
very  opposite.  However  well  tuned  may  be  the 
instrument  they  touch,  their  rough,  inconsequent 
fingers  always  strike  some  jarring  string.  Wound- 
ed sensibility  exaggerates  their  bluntness  into  in- 
sult ;  Confusion  enters  the  doors  where  they  pass 
in  ;  Discord  follows  in  their  steps. 

There  is  an  anecdote  told  of  a  certain  officer  who, 
having  lost  an  arm  in  battle,  ever  after  judged  of 
the  high  breeding  and  good  nature  of  the  persons 
presented  to  him,  by  noticing  whether  their  eyes 
wandered  to  the  empty  coat-sleeve.  He  knew  that 
those  who  appeared  perfectly  unconscious  of  his 
loss,  were  influenced  by  considerate  delicacy ; 
while  those  whose  eyes  were  constantly  turned  to 
the  former  locality  of  the  deficient  member,  had 
souls  of  a  rude  texture,  insensible  to  fine  percep- 
tions  or   sympathetic  emotions.     Tactless  people 

(235) 


236  Tactless  People. 

belong  to  this  last  mentioned  order  of  beings,  and 
seem  to  possess  an  especial  gift  for  spying  ont  and 
pitilessly  dragging  to  light,  imperfections  which 
politeness  ignores. 

Their  scrutinizing  eyes  are  ever  upon  a  voyage 
of  discovery  ;  and  who  does  not  shrink  from  their 
merciless  scanning  1     Who  has  not  felt  that 

"  Being  observed 
When  observation  is  not  sympathy, 
Is  just  being  tortured  "  ? 

Yet  from  this  torture  we  need  never  hope  to  es- 
cape while  a  member  —  especially  a  feminine  mem- 
ber —  of  the  tactless  family  is  present.  Be  sure 
that  her  lynx  eyes  will  detect  the  first  unwelcome 
thread  of  silver  that  winds  its  shining  way  among 
raven  locks,  and  will  as  certainly  proclaim  the  un- 
suspected intruder.  But  she  makes  the  announce- 
ment with  no  malicious  intent ;  she  is  quite  un- 
conscious of  wounding  one  yet  unreconciled  to  the 
sore  necessity  of  growing  old.  Your  tactless  friend 
seems  physically  unable  to  avoid  personalities.  Let 
a  pair  of  smiling  lips  disclose  pearls  of  strikingly 
unnatural  whiteness  and  regularity,  and  she  is  im- 
mediately impelled  to  descant  upon  false  teeth. 
She  unfailingly  discusses  the  angularity  and  want 
of  grace  of  meagre  people  before  those  who  are 
vainly  seeking  flesh  in  cod  liver  oil,  and  every 
other  known  promoter  of  rounded  outlines ;  and 
she  invariably  expresses  her  disgust  for  unseemly 


Tactless  People.  237 

rotundity  before  unfortunates  who  are  martyrizing 
themselves  by  futile  efforts  to  reduce  their  unsym- 
metrical  proportions,  through  compression  and 
starvation,  or  to  conceal  them  by  manifold  arts  of 
the  toilette. 

Tactless  people  are  especially  given  to  criticize 
dress.  Woe  to  the  hapless  fair  one  who  has  been 
forced  by  poverty  into  some  little  untasteful  expe- 
dient, or  who  bears  about  her  a  darn,  or  a  slight 
fracture,  which  she  nervously  hoped  might  escape 
notice.  Beyond  all  peradventure,  a  pair  of  re- 
buking, tactless  eyes  will  forthwith  fasten  upon 
the  imperfection. 

Beware,  too,  of  the  hands  of  the  tactless.  They 
are  human  magnets  to  attract  and  draw  out  de- 
fects. If  a  vase  of  flowers  is  turned  to  the  wall  to 
hide  an  unsightly  crack,  if  a  cushion  is  arranged 
on  a  sofa  to  conceal  an  unlucky  rent,  if  a  curtain 
is  adjusted  over  a  window  to  veil  a  broken  pane, 
if  a  footstool  is  carefully  placed  over  an  oil  stain 
on  the  carpet,  their  hands,  as  if  by  instinct,  drag 
away  the  friendly  screen,  and  reveal  the  hidden 
offence. 

As  for  French  gold,  and  plated  silver,  and  paste 
diamonds,  and  imitation  lace,  dyed  silks,  cleaned 
gloves,  and  other  genteel  shams  and  expedients, 
there  is  not  the  faintest  chance  that  they  will  pass 
current  with  your  tactless  guest.  If,  perforce,  her 
lips  are  silent,  the  close  investigation  and  the  sig- 
nificant glances  of  her  tell-tale  eyes  quickly  an- 
nounce that  she  is  not  duped  by  the  imposture ! 


238  Tactless  People. 

Then,  if  there  is  a  sore  subject  to  any  one  pres- 
ent, it  is  always  stumbled  upon  (though  with  no 
unkind  intention)  by  these  tactless  people^  They 
will  discourse  about  profligate  sons  and  thankless 
daughters  before  sorrowing  parents,  and  rail  at 
unworthy  husbands  before  heart-broken  wives, 
and  bemoan  the  wretchedness  of  marriage  before 
ill-matched  partners.  If  a  girl  has  been  jilted, 
they  innocently  endeavor  to  entertain  her  with  an 
account  of  the  wedding  of  a  gay  young  friend.  If 
a  sick  child  lies  gasping  in  its  mother's  arms,  the 
consolation  they  offer  is  a  history  of  the  deaths 
they  have  known  from  just  such  illnesses.  They 
are  very  much  surprised  if  an  impression  slowly 
reaches  them  that  they  have  created  confusion  or 
occasioned  distress.  They  assure  you  they  had  no 
such  design ;  and  doubtless  they  had  none-  It 
was  only  the  absence  of  that  sixth  sense,  called 
"  tact,"  which  rendered  them  so  obnoxious  as 
companions,  and  which  will  always  cause  their 
presence  to  be  dreaded  and  shunned. 

Singularly  enough,  their  own  sensibilities  are 
remarkably  acute.  No  one  can  be  more  quickly 
wounded  than  they,  if  their  blunt  speeches  are  re- 
torted, and  the  arrows  sent  back  hit  their  own 
vulnerable  points. 

Do  we  estimate  ' '  tact  "  too  highly  in  thinking  it 
a  positive  virtue,  one  of  the  indispensable  elements 
of  an  agreeable  character  ?  Was  it  not  Dr.  John- 
son who  said  that  politeness  was  "  benevolence  in 


Tactless  People.  239 

trifles "  ]  If  politeness  be  the  offspring  of  good 
feeling  evinced  in  social  minutiae,  tact  as  certainly 
springs  from  the  amiability  which  is  thoughtful  to 
spare  others  pain. 

Many  a  woman,  endowed  with  noble  attributes, 
and  rich  in  sterling  virtues,  has  passed  through 
life  little  beloved,  little  appreciated,  and  seldom 
sought  after,  because  she  was  lamentably  deficient 
in  this  one  conciliating,  harmonizing  quality  of 
tact;  because  she  always  rendered  those  with 
whom  she  associated  discontented  with  themselves, 
and  that  engendered  discontent  with  her. 

A  writer  who  has  evidently  weighed  the  im- 
portance of  the  social  art  of  making  one's-self 
acceptable  to  others,  by  rendering  others  pleased 
with  themselves,  jocosely  advises  a  man  who  has 
failed  in  inspiring  a  woman  with  love  for  him, 
"  to  fill  her  above  the  brim  with  love  for  herself," 
assuring  him  that  all  which  "  runs  over  will  be 
his."  That  counsellor  understood  the  value  of  the 
word  "  tact." 


ORIGINAL  PEOPLE. 


^|S|||kUT  forth  an  original  book,  an  original 
(JlmKk  pl^y?  an  original  achievement  in  art,  an 
^^p^  original  invention  of  science,  and  what  a 
clamorous  welcome  echoes  throughout  Vanity  Fair  ! 
What  grandiloquent  praises  are  trumpeted  from  the 
lips  of  its  graceful  booth-keepers  !  Taking  their 
cue  from  some  outside  oracle,  what  enthusiasm, 
what  powers  of  appreciation,  what  critical  acumen 
they  display !  But,  usher  into  the  presence  of 
"  Good  Society,"  (the  presiding  genius  of  that  po- 
lite mart), "  an  original  person  "  —  oh  !  that  is  quite 
different ;  an  intolerable  innovation,  a  social  nui- 
sance !  "  Good  Society "  is  shocked  that  the  in- 
truder bears  so  little  resemblance  to  the  charming 
creatures  whom  she  has  stamped  and  moulded,  and 
curtailed  of  too  luxuriant  physical  and  mental 
proportion.  She  scans  the  singular  individual  with 
questioning  and  disapproving  eyes  ;  and  of  what  a 
number  of  crimes,  according  to  her  code,  she  finds 
him  guilty !  His  fervid  nature  has  melted  the 
smooth,  waxed  mask  of  polished  simulation,  and 
revealed  strongly  marked  lineaments,  deep  lines, 

(240) 


Original  Peojjle.  211 

and  uncompromising  coloring.  He  has  sought  out 
the  stature  of  his  own  soul,  and  found  it  was  not 
just  the  measure  of  any  other  man's.  He  has 
burst  the  straight  jacket  of  cramping  convention- 
ality, that  his  vigorous  faculties  might  have  free 
play  ;  he  has  walked  out  of  the  verdureless,  even- 
trodden  path  (leading  to  nothing)  which  myriads 
of  feet  are  trampling  with  unprogressive,  tread- 
mill motion ;  he  has  rent  asunder  what  Aurora 
Leigh  calls  "  the  violent  bands  of  social  figments ;  " 
he  has  dared  to  think  for  himself,  to  judge  for  him- 
self, to  act  for  himself,  and  not  by  the  arbitrary 
law  some  feebler  spirit  has  established. 

Convicted  of  these  delinquencies,  "  Good  So- 
ciety "  brands  him  with  the  terrible  stigma  of  "  ec- 
centric," "  odd,"  "  mad."  And  how  quickly  her 
hand-maiden,  Eidicule,  points  at  him  her  scornful 
finger,  greets  him  with  her  dread  laugh,  and  pur- 
sues him  with  her  caustic  jests.  Eccentricity  is 
such  a  fair  subject  for  merriment !  such  an  offence 
to  good  taste !  such  a  parlor  monster !  Let  us 
have  none  of  it  in  these  mincing,  kid-glove,  danc- 
ing-shoe days. 

They  are  not  at  all  dull,  then,  those  stereotyped 
transcripts  of  commonplace  humanity  whom  we 
encounter  at  every  turn  of  this  same  popular  Van- 
ity Fair]  They  are  not  at  all  wearisome,  then, 
those  men  and  women  led  by  the  tinkling  of  cus- 
tom's bell-wether  ;  those  fashion-plate  patterns  of 
one  another  in  dress ;  those  etiquette-book  copies 
21 


242  Original  People. 

of  each  other  in  manners ;  those  living  illustrations 
of  propriety,  who  have  been  taught  to  move  with 
the  same  motion,  speak  in  the  same  tone,  think 
the  same  thoughts,  crowd  down  their  souls  into 
the  same  narrow  actual,  and  shut  the  door  against 
the  contemplation  of  any  high  possible  ?  Then, 
too,  we  must  account  them  very  wise  in  their  con- 
clusion that,  although  an  act  may  be  good,  may  be 
of  importance  to  mankind,  may  be  a  deed  which 
justice  or  honor  dictates,  yet,  if  it  would  "  look 
singular,"  if  it  has  not  been  done  by  some  of  their 
set  before,  oh,  shocking !  it  is  to  be  shunned  and 
denounced  !  What  pleasant,  profitable  compan- 
ions they  make,  these  repetition  people  !  What 
great  actions,  and  great  benefits,  and  great  exam- 
ples, the  world  may  hope  for  from  them  !  They 
have  escaped  the  dreadful  imputation  of  eccentric- 
ity ;  is  not  that  the  summum  bonum  of  a  man's  or 
woman's  existence  X 

Shall  we  venture  to  remind  them  that  as  not  a 
tree,  not  a  leaf,  not  a  flower,  not  a  blade  of  grass, 
is  fashioned  by  the  Divine  hand  precisely  similar 
to  any  other,  so  not  a  single  human  being  is  cre- 
ated without  distinctive  features  and  character- 
istics ;  and  that  by  the  attempt  of  those  servile 
copyists  to  conceal  or  obliterate  the  wonderful 
spiritual  and  physical  individuality  given  to  each, 
they  tacitly  rebuke  the  infinite  diversity  of  the 
Creator's  works'? 

Shall  we  also  dare  to  hint  to  them  that  as  the 


Original  People.  243 

"  eccentricities  of  genius"  is  a  common  expression, 
it  may  possibly  suggest  the  inference  that  where 
there  is  most  genius  there  is  usually  most  original- 
ity of  thought,  consequently,  originality  (or  eccen- 
tricity) of  expression,  manner,  and  action'?  Thus 
may  we  not  arrive  at  the  potential  deduction  that 
original  (or  eccentric)  people  are  usually  persons 
endowed  with  uncommon  capacities,  if  not  gifted 
with  positive  genius  ? 

For  ourselves,  we  have  the  bad  taste  to  avow 
that  contact  with  thoroughly  original  spirits  is  to 
us  refreshing  and  enlivening  in  the  highest  de- 
gree. How  their  presence  wakens,  stirs  up  a 
sluggish,  dead-alive  coterie !  How  they  infuse 
new  ideas,  new  pulses,  new  vitality  into  lower, 
duller,  more  torpid  organizations  !  How  they  re- 
invigorate  the  great  social  artery,  by  a  process 
which  resembles  the  physical  practice,  patent  in 
other  days,  of  injecting  buoyant,  healthy  blood  into 
the  flaccid  veins  of  the  feeble  and  dying  !  These 
original  minds  force  us  to  think,  startle  us  into 
feeling,  make  us  ashamed  of  our  own  insignifi- 
cance, inspire  us  to  search  out  the  purposes  of  our 
being,  cry  "Excelsior  !  "  in  our  ears,  impel  us  on- 
ward in  the  path  of  progress  ;  and  so,  we  bid  them 
all  hail !  We  would  not  exchange  one  hour  in 
the  society  of  these  strong  and  strengthening  na- 
tures for  a  lifetime  wasted,  basking  in  the  mean- 
ingless smiles,  and  listening  to  the  pretty  nothings 


244 


Original  People. 


of  the  most  charming  duplicate,  of  the  most  per- 
fect model  "  Good  Society "  ever  stamped  with 
her  superlative  praise  of  "  uneccentric,  unexcep- 
tionable ! " 


NERVOUS  PEOPLE. 


^RVES  —  weak  nerves,  excitable  nerves, 
unstrung  nerves,  —  what  an  absurdity 
they  appear  to  granite  minds  and  iron 
frames !  Muscles,  bones,  and  sinews  are  hard 
realities ;  but  nerves  have  only  a  vapory  and  un- 
substantial existence,  in  the  estimation  of  men  and 
women  of  nerve.  Very  paradoxical  in  sound,  but 
not  less  veritable  !  You  remind  them  that  through 
these  delicate  conductors  the  sovereign  brain  trans- 
mits its  will  to  the  subject  body,  and  they  gravely 
admit  that  nerves  are  actually  the  fine,  intangible 
media  of  this  vital  communion  ;  but  try  to  convince 
them  that  the  disturbance  of  the  electric  current 
conveyed  through  the  channel  of  the  nerves  pro- 
duces that  painful  condition  styled  nervousness, 
and  they  start  back  to  their  former  skeptical  stand- 
point, and  maintain  that  nerves  are  imaginary  nui- 
sances, and  that  nervousness  is  merely  the  fanciful, 
hypochondriacal  state  to  which  feeble  intellects 
are  prone.  Consequently,  all.  phases  of  nervous- 
ness excite  in  these  insensate  unbelievers  impa- 
tience, ridicule,  or  anger. 

21*  (245) 


246  Nervous  People. 

A  friend  once  remarked  to  us,  with  a  sigh,  "  It 
is  a  terrible  epoch  in  our  lives  when  we  first  dis- 
cover that  we  have  nerves.  But  who  treats  us 
more  tenderly  on  account  of  the  sad  revelation? 
If  our  hearts,  lungs,  brains  were  out  of  order,  we 
should  receive  a  fabulous  amount  of  compassion  ; 
but  only  nerves  —  nonsense  !  their  ailment  is  vi- 
sionary." Yet  one  might  as  well  expect  to  pro- 
duce sweet  sounds  from  a  harp  with  loosened  strings 
as  to  evoke  the  true  music  of  life  from  a  frame 
with  nerves  unstrung. 

Mrs.  Wilton  starts,  turns  pale  and  trembles  at 
a  sudden  sound ;  or  is  seized  with  such  a  spasm 
of  terror  at  some  supposed  danger,  that  she  quiv- 
ers from  head  to  foot ;  or  is  so  completely  over- 
powered by  some  temporary  responsibility,  that 
she  wholly  loses  her  presence  of  mind ;  or  is  so 
much  agitated  by  finding  herself  in  an  unexpect- 
ed crowd,  that  she  cannot  collect  her  thoughts  to 
reply  coherently  to  a  single  question.  All  the  sym- 
pathy she  receives  from  people  whose  insensibility 
has  gifted  them  with  a  large  amount  of  social 
aplomb ,  is  conveyed  in  the  half  contemptuous  ejacu- 
lations, "  Poor  thing  !  She  is  so  nervous!  How 
silly  !  "  Not  one  of  these  stolid  individuals  makes 
the  humane  reflection,  "  How  wretchedly  uncom- 
fortable she  must  feel !  "  Not  one  of  them  pitying- 
ly asks,  "  What  great  shock,  or  what  accumulated 
troubles,  convulsing  or  wearing  upon  her  nerves, 
have  rendered  them  so  sensitive1?" 


Nervous  People.  247 

And  yet  a  high  degree  of  habitual  nervousness 
can  almost  always  be  traced  to  the  nerve-shattering 
of  some  heavy  blow,  or  the  unnerving  strain  of 
protracted  anxiety,  or  the  exhaustion  of  long-con- 
tinued ill  health. 

A  train  of  pallid  martyrs  starts  up  at  that  as- 
sertion, and  glides  in  slow  procession  through  the 
halls  of  our  memory.  We  sketch  the  portraits  of 
one  or  two  whose  images  have  left  a  touching  im- 
pression. 

Kind-hearted  Mrs.  Meanwell,  one  of  the  most 
exemplary  of  women,  is  a  victim  to  nervous  mal- 
aise ;  she  is  perfectly  conscious  that  her  restless 
discomfort  annoys  her  neighbors,  and  she  makes 
the  most  desperate  efforts  to  control  or  conceal  her 
sufferings.     Their  origin  is  somewhat  moving. 

A  few  years  ago,  Mrs.  Meanwell  chanced  to  pay 
a  visit  to  her  husband's  office.  The  untidy  condi- 
tion of  his  surroundings  disturbed  her  housewifely 
mind.  Probably  she  had  not  arrived  at  Fanny 
Fern's  lamentably  true  conclusion  that  men  like 
dirt ;  consequently,  soap,  water,  and  a  scrubbing 
brush  appeared  to  her  indispensable  agents  for  pro- 
moting Mr.  Me  an  well's  comfort.  His  office  was  lo- 
cated in  the  lower  story  of  a  capacious  building  oc- 
cupied by  men  engaged  in  various  kinds  of  business. 
Mrs.  Meanwell  accidentally  heard  that  in  a  remote 
room,  in  the  highest  story,  resided  the  cleaners  of 
the  establishment.  With  the  promptness  and  en- 
ergy which  always  characterized  her,  she  at  once 


248  Nervous  People. 

mounted  to  their  apartment.  No  answer  was  given 
to  her  knock.  She  opened  the  door  ;  the  room 
was  vacant ;  she  entered  and  resolved  to  await  the 
arrival  of  its  inmates.  She  was  searching  for  some 
book  which  might  help  her  to  while  away  a  te- 
dious interval,  when  a  man's  voice  roughly  accost- 
ed her,  and  inquired  what  she  was  doing  there. 
She  was  not  a  little  startled  by  his  rude  tone  ;  and, 
on  turning  to  reply,  his  savage  and  suspicious  look 
confused  and  alarmed  her  so  much  that  she  expe- 
rienced a  strong  inclination  to  betake  herself  to 
flight.  While  she  was  stammeringly  making  her 
errand  known,  he  commenced  examining  the  apart- 
ment, and  after  hastily  opening  a  box  upon  the  ta- 
ble, seized  her  by  the  arm,  exclaiming,  "  You  are 
a  thief !  You  came  here  to  steal !  You  stole  my 
sixty  dollars  ! " 

A  thief!  That  well  born,  highly  educated  lady, 
whose  liberal,  helpful  hands  were  always  ready  to 
aid  and  to  give,  accused  of  taking  what  was 
not  her  own  1  no  wonder  that  the  very  suggestion 
struck  her  dumb  !  She  could  only  gaze  upon  him 
in  mute  and  terrified  amazement.  He  repeated 
with  greater  violence  his  accusation,  and  ordered 
her  to  restore  the  money.  As  soon  as  utterance 
returned,  she  indignantly  told  him  her  name  and 
the  object  of  her  presence  in  his  apartment.  Pay- 
ing no  regard  to  her  statement,  he  coolly  ordered 
a  comrade  to  summon  a  policeman.  The  officer 
soon  appeared.     Mrs.  Meanwell  protested  her  in- 


Nervous  People.  249 

nocence  of  the  charge  brought  against  her,  but  her 
excessive  alarm  gave  her  the  appearance  of  guilt. 
Instead  of  listening  to  her  explanations,  the  officer 
made  a  jest  of  her  attempts  at  self-defence,  saying, 
"Oh!  I  know  all  about  that;  of  course  you  are 
innocent ;  light-fingered  ladies  always  are  !  And 
they  are  always  civil  spoken  and  finely  dressed  — 
feathers,  flowers,  gimcracks,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  That's  the  way  they  carry  on  their  game. 
But  you  can't  come  over  me  with  any  of  that  gam- 
mon !  If  you  take  my  advice  you  will  give  up  the 
money  at  once  and  try  to  make  some  compensation 
to  this  man  to  hush  up  the  matter ;  you're  off  to 
the  Tombs  if  you  don't." 

In  vain  Mrs.  Meanwell  told  him  she  could  not 
give  up  what  she  did  not  possess ;  in  vain  she  en- 
treated that  her  husband  or  father  might  be  sent 
for ;  the  officer  refused  to  grant  any  such  favor 
until  she  had  been  taken  before  the  authorities. 
She  was  almost  beside  herself  at  the  contemplation 
of  her  own  unprotected  condition,  at  the  probabili- 
ty that  force  would  be  used  if  she  declined  to  ac- 
company the  officer,  and  at  the  thought  of  the 
shame*  and  publicity  to  which  she  would  be  ex- 
posed. At  this  crisis  the  wife  of  her  accuser  en- 
tered the  room,  and,  examining  an  old  pitcher 
where  she  had  hidden  the  money,  found  it  undis- 
turbed. Mrs.  Meanwell  waited  to  hear  no  apolo- 
gies, but  quickly  availed  herself  of  her  regained 
liberty.     She  hardly  knew  how  she   reached  her 


250  Nervous  People, 

home,  and  was  found  on  the  floor  motionless  and 
speechless.  Her  half  frantic  alarm ,  and  the  over- 
powering agitation  to  which  she  had  been  subject- 
ed, prostrated  her  physique ,  and  produced  the  un- 
controllable nervousness  to  which  she  had  ever 
since  been  a  martyr.  Shall  we  laugh  at  sufferings 
which  had  such  an  unprovoked  origin  1  Shall  we 
pronounce  them  "  silly,"  "  imaginary,"  "  weak," 
and  turn  from  them  with  contempt  ? 

The  nervousness  of  Mrs.  Gordon,  a  very  lovely 
English  lady,  is  even  more  distressing  tban  that  of 
Mrs.  Mean  well,  and  was  the  consequence  of  a  far 
more  appalling  mental  convulsion.  Mrs.  Gordon 
had  been  married  but  a  few  months,  when  her 
husband  preceded  her  to  Paris  to  prepare  a  sump- 
tuous home  for  the  reception  of  his  bride.  A 
month  later  she  left  Southampton  to  join  him  at 
Havre.  The  steamer  in  which  she  embarked  was 
wrecked,  at  night,  during  a  violent  storm.  Many 
of  the  passengers  were  lost.  Mrs.  Gordon,  with 
several  gentlemen,  escaped  in  a  small  boat.  For 
two  nights  and  a  day  they  were  tossed  about  at  the 
mercy  of  the  waves,  without  provisions,  without 
protection  from  the  cold,  almost  without  hope  of 
ultimate  safety.  It  is  not  difficult  to  imagine  the 
phrenzied  terror  of  a  delicately  nurtured  woman, 
suddenly  thrown  into  a  position  of  so  much  peril, 
surrounded  by  strangers  of  the  opposite  sex.  On 
the  second  day  a  new  calamity  was  added  to  those 
they  had  already  encountered :  the  boat  sprung  a 


Nervous  People.  251 

leak  and  foundered.  Only  two  of  its  occupants  were 
saved  ;  the  young  wife  was  one.  She  had  not  at  any 
time  lost  consciousness,  and  remembered  distinct- 
ly being  dragged  from  the  water  by  her  long,  abun- 
dant hair.  She  was  soon  restored  to  her  agonized 
husband,  but  the  states  of  horror  and  despair  she 
had  undergone  had  unbalanced  her  mind,  and  at 
first  it  was  feared  that  her  reason  would  be  wholly 
clouded.  This  misfortune  was  warded  off  by  the 
watchful,  never  failing  tenderness  and  the  judicious 
treatment  of  her  husband. 

It  was  several  years  after  her  fearful  accident 
that  we  became  acquainted  with  her.  Her  abode 
was  one  of  great  magnificence.  Countless  enjoy- 
ments were  within  her  reach;  the  most- soothing 
influences  encompassed  her,  and  a  husband  who 
made  her  comfort  and  happiness  the  chief  object 
of  his  life,  watched  over  her.  Yet  her  nervous- 
ness was  the  most  pitiable  we  ever  witnessed.  It 
would  evince  itself  at  the  most  unexpected  mo- 
ments in  startling  ways :  by  a  deep  groan,  a  sup- 
pressed shriek,  a  sudden  leaping  from  her  seat  and 
clinging  to  the  nearest  support,  by  wild  exclama- 
tions, and  fits  of  terror,  as  though  some  awful 
scene  were  enacted  before  her  eyes.  She  was  still 
very  beautiful,  and,  in  spite  of  her  nervous  ail- 
ment, her  manners,  when  composed,  had  a  charm- 
ing grace.  Previous  to  her  accident,  she  had  been 
a  robust  girl,  dowered  with  the  English  boon  of 
immaculate  health.     She  was  not  considered  ex- 


252  Nervous  People. 

ceedingly  sensitive,  nor  peculiarly  timid.  She  had 
a  fine  and  highly  cultivated  intellect,  and  more 
than  ordinary  strength  of  character.  Could  any 
tender  nature  regard  the  state  of  nerves  produced 
by  such  a  terrible  catastrophe  as  a  subject  for  ridi- 
cule ]  Could  it  excite  scorn  or  impatience  in  any 
feeling  heart  % 

But  these  are  instances  in  which  very  violent 
causes,  easily  traced  back  to  an  originating  source, 
have  produced  the  morbid  discomfort  of  nervous- 
ness. There  are  thousands  of  cases  which,  though 
perhaps  less  remarkable,  appeal  as  forcibly  to  our 
sympathy.  We  have  seen  a  woman,  naturally  joy- 
ous and  high-spirited,  thrown  into  a  state  of  ner- 
vousness, bordering  upon  insanity,  by  the  sight  of 
little  coffins,  one  after  another,  borne  from  her 
home,  until  she  stood  as  desolate  as  Niobe.  We 
have  seen  a  strong-hearted  wife  gradually  robbed 
of  all  control  over  her  nerves,  through  protracted 
vigils  beside  the  pillow  of  a  beloved  partner,  over 
whose  couch  the  angels  of  Life  and  Death  were 
fiercely  battling.  And  when,  to  such  a  sorrow, 
was  added  the  presence  of  outer  cares  —  the  un- 
certainty of  supplying  the  dear  sufferer  with  all 
his  needs,  the  dread  of  threatened  destitution,  the 
horror  of  a  widow's  single-handed  struggle  with 
the  world,  after  those  dying  eyes  had  been  closed 
for  the  last  time  by  the  kiss  of  her  fond  lips,  —  is 
it  marvellous  that  the  misery  of  life-long  nervous- 
ness should  be  the  result  of  such  trials  ?     We  have 


Nervous  People. 


253 


seen  —  but  why  multiply  examples  of  hourly  oc- 
currence ?  Every  one  who  pauses  to  note,  will 
find  them  scattered  in  abundance  around  him. 
But  can  any  kindly  spirit,  who  is  once  induced  to 
search  out  the  causes  of  the  grievous  condition 
styled  nervousness,  ever  regard  its  most  tormenting 
phases  as  a  theme  for  skepticism,  anger,  or  mirth  ? 
As  well  might  we  pronounce  the  knell-like  cough 
of  the  consumptive  unreal,  vexatious,  or  absurd! 


SENSITIVE  PEOPLE. 


LMOST  with  their  earliest  breath  the  tor- 
tures of  the  sensitive  begin  ;  in  the  very 
dawn  of  their  existence,  the  first  fore- 
boding signs  of  shrinking  and  of  suffering  are  ap- 
parent. The  bright  eye  of  infancy  will  suddenly 
fill  with  tears,  the  rosy  lip  curl  and  quiver,  the  soft 
cheek  flush  through  wounded  feeling.  A  chiding 
word,  a  mocking  laugh,  has  pierced  the  tender 
soul ;  it  recoils  instinctively  from  blame  or  ridi- 
cule, ay,  even  before  the  child  knows  the  meaning 
of  the  words.  Who  can  note  these  touching  indi- 
cations of.  acute  sensibility,  without  a  sigh  at  the 
thought  of  the  rude  blasts,  the  beating  rain,  the 
pinching  frosts,  that  must  blow  about,  and  pros- 
trate, and  wither  that  delicate  shoot  of  humanity, 
in  Its  upward  struggle  through  life  I 

Now  and  then  these  sensitive  natures  are  dulled 
and  hardened  by  contact  with  the  world  ;  now  and 
then,  through  severe  self-discipline,  they  learn  to 
resist  the  cruel  blow  ;  or  to  draw,  with  resolute 
hands,  the  veil  of  seeming  indifference  over  the 
bleeding  wound,  and  hide  the  throes  of  anguish 

(254) 


Sensitive  People.  255 

from  the  most  penetrating  gaze.  But  more  fre- 
quently their  sensitiveness  increases,  until  it  be- 
comes a  daily,  hourly  instrument  of  torment.  It  is 
usually  coupled  with  an  imaginative  temperament, 
and  more  than  half  the  hurts  it  receives  are  fan- 
cied, or  not  dealt  with  intention.  Sensitive  people 
are  always  ready  to  be  wounded,  always  expecting 
to  be  wounded,  always  attracting  casual  shots  their 
way,  and  often  draw  down  unpremeditated  smiting 
by  their  evident  anticipation  of  the  stroke. 

Though  the  possessors  of  these  highly  sensitive 
organizations  may  excite  our  tenderest  sympathy, 
though  they  may  win  our  love,  and  must  move  our 
pity,  yet  they  are  not  pleasant  companions.  Their 
constant  distress  disturbs  the  general  serenity ; 
their  imaginary  wrongs  destroy  all  harmony,  and 
the  effort  to  guard  them  from  random  arrows  pre- 
vents all  freedom  of  communion.  If  a  humorous 
anecdote  is  related,  satirizing  peculiarities  of  char- 
acter which  they  chance  to  consider  their  own, 
they  are  certain  the  raconteur  meant  to  be  person- 
al ;  if  they  perceive  a  knot  of  friends  conversing 
in  a  low  tone,  they  are  sure  the  conversation  is 
about  them ;  if  they  are  not  treated  with  distin- 
guishing attention,  they  fancy  themselves  slight- 
ed ;  if  they  receive  particular  consideration,  they 
imagine  that  they  are  pitied  and  patronized ;  if  an 
opinion  of  theirs  is  combated,  they  color  with 
mortification  ;  if  they  are  brought  forward  in  any 
conspicuous  manner,  they  are  pale  with  alarm ;  in 


256  Sensitive  People. 

short,  they  can  never  agreeably  make  one  of  a  so- 
cial circle,  and  contribute  to  the  general  enjoy- 
ment by  that  ease  and  self-forgetfulness  which  is 
the  charm  of  refined  intercourse. 

And  yet,  though  their  companionship  is  so  un- 
satisfactory, these  sensitive  spirits  are  almost  al- 
ways rich  in  lovable  attributes ;  their  sympathies 
are  quick,  so  quick,  alas!  that  they  are  often 
wasted ;  their  affections  are  ardent,  so  ardent  that 
they  are  too  readily  excited  and  too  easily  betray- 
ed ;  they  are  delicate  instruments,  iEolian  harps, 
from  wrhich  even  a  passing  wind  can  draw  forth 
strains  of  tender  or  mournful  melody.  But  this 
lamentable  sensitiveness  is  not  the  evidence  of 
weak  minds,  nor  of  dwarfed  intellects.  Eull-statured 
souls,  lavishly  dowered,  have  ever  been  the  most 
vulnerable  to  petty  arrows  —  arrows  which,  though 
hurled  by  despicable  hands,  have  fallen  with  the 
violence  of  thunder-bolts  upon  these  finely  moulded 
and  receptive  natures.  Sensitiveness  is  often  the 
handmaiden  of  Genius,  and  gives  sweetness  to  the 
world's  approval,  even  as  it  imparts  poison  to  the 
dispraise  of  fools  ;  lending  to  both  a  fictitious  value 
and  an  undue  power. 

It  is  fabled  that  when  the  bosom  of  the  nightin- 
gale is  pressed  against  a  thorn  she  sings  most  me- 
lodiously ;  and  often  it  is  the  poet's  susceptibility 
to  suffering,  his  very  crisis  of  pain,  that  becomes 
his  inspiration  ;  his  most  glorious  songs  gush  forth 
with  the  crucifixion  groan ;  his  brightest  flowers 


Sensitive  People.  257 

of  thought  are  tinged  with  heart's  blood.  Even 
his  most  charming  sports  of  fancy  have  been  pro- 
duced under  the  writhing  of  such  mental  agony  as 
only  sensitive  spirits  are  capable  of  experiencing. 
We  all  know  that  Hood,  the  prince  of  humorists, 
convulsed  the  world  with  laughter  when  he  was 
tortured  by  the  deepest  melancholy,  and  that  Cow- 
per's  mirth-provoking  John  Gilpin  was  produced 
under  a  state  of  dejection  that  bordered  on  insani- 
ty. He,  himself,  compares  the  entrance  of  that 
poem  into  his  brain,  to  a  harlequin  intruding  him- 
self into  the  gloomy  chamber  occupied  by  a  corpse. 
.  One  sensitiveness  of  great  minds  has  always  been 
inexplicable  to  us  :  the  sensitiveness  to  censure. 
Censure  which  pierced  the  heart  of  the  philo- 
sophic Newton ;  which  slew  Racine  and  Keats  ; 
which  drove  the  Italian  Tasso  and  the  English 
Collins  mad.  Alas  !  how  could  they  have  forgot- 
ten that  only  insignificance  escapes  condemnation ; 
that  he  who  outstrips  others  in  ascending  the  hill 
of  Fame,  becomes  the  most  tempting  target  to  be 
shot  at  by  every  puny  archer  beneath. 

And  in  these  days,  as  in  those  of  Keats  and  Col- 
lins, noble  minds  groan  and  writhe  under  the  lash 
of  rebuke,  often  lifted  by  unworthy  hands,  by  Mal- 
ice, by  Envy,  by  Eevenge.  And  the  more  appar- 
ent the  sensitiveness  of  the  great,  the  more  fre- 
quently and  violently  they  are  assailed.  Better 
far  to  cover  Sensibility  with  the  armor  of  Tact, 
and  conquer  Censure  as  Julius   Caesar  did  of  old. 

22* 


258  Sensitive  People. 

When  Catullus  satirized  him,  the  hero  disarmed 
the  satirist  by  cordially  inviting  him  to  supper,  as 
if  in  recognition  of  an  act  of  friendship. 

Possibly  the  pains  which  spring  from  a  high 
degree  of  sensitiveness,  are  the  meet  alloy  to  the 
intense  pleasures  that  emanate  from  the  possession 
of  glorious  gifts,  and  thus  Sensitiveness  may  be 
the  fitting  attendant  of  Greatness  ;  but  to  lesser 
minds  we  dare  venture  to  say,  struggle  against  a 
morbid  sensibility  until  your  claims  to  Genius 
entitle  you  to  pardon  for  the  weaknesses  of  Genius. 


PASSING  WOfiDS. 


.PASSING  word,  mere  sounding  breath, 
how  light  its  import  seems !  how  "big  with 
fate  "  it  often  proves  !  Not  alone  words 
that  are  the  voice  of  daily  thoughts,  but  words  that 
are  only  the  utterance  of  a  transient  emotion,  for- 
gotten soon  as  felt ;  words  that  are  but  an  idly 
spoken  impulse  melt  not  away  with  the  air  that 
holds  them,  but  assume  mysterious  shapes  of  good 
or  evil,  to  influence  and  haunt  the  hearer's  life. 

These  passing  words  are  seed  scattered  per- 
chance by  liberal,  perchance  by  inconsequent 
hands  ;  though  lightly,  unpremeditatedly  dropped, 
if  they  fall  upon  receptive  minds,  upon  open,  fer- 
tile soils,  they  strike  vigorous  roots,  germinate  in 
silence  and  darkness,  and,  before  we  know  that 
they  are  planted,  bring  forth  grapes  or  thistles. 
Blessed  are  they  whose  paths  on  earth  may  be 
tracked  by  the  good  seed   sown  in  passing  words  ! 

A  passing  word  of  truth  may  be  likened  to  an 
ostrich  egg  chance-laid  in  sand.  Warmed  by  the 
sun  alone,  without  the  help  of  brooding  wings,  un- 
tended  and  unwatched,  the  noble  bird  bursts,  in 

(259) 


260  Passing   Words. 

due  season,  from  its  shell.  Even  so  that  living 
truth,  dropped  without  thought,  unfostered,  save 
by  heaven's  quickening  heart,  may  rise  betimes  in 
glorious  growth. 

A  casual  word  of  praise  has  colored  a  whole  ex- 
istence ;  that  single  word,  that  passing  breath, 
touching  the  bended  bow  of  Destiny,  has  given 
direction  to  the  arrow's  flight,  has  decided  the  fu- 
ture career  of  the  man ;  even  as  a  mother's  kiss 
of  approval  made  Benjamin  West  a  painter. 

A  word  of  kind  encouragement  has  imparted  to 
latent  powers  an  impetus  that  made  some  shrink- 
ing soul  thrill,  palpitate,  expand  with  the  sense  of 
its  own  undeveloped  capabilities,  the  consciousness 
of  what  it  might  achieve,  the  prescience  of  what 
it  would  become. 

An  earnest  word  of  guidance  has  woven  a  gold- 
en thread,  strong  and  bright,  in  the  web  of  a  life. 

A  tender  word  —  oh  !  it  has  fallen  like  manna, 
and  nourished  and  revived  the  hungry,  pining 
heart ;  it  has  softened  sorrows  no  poured-out  gold 
could  soothe ;  it  has  healed  wounds  no  Galen's 
skill  could  reach ;  it  has  lifted  up  prostrate  heads 
no  Titan's  "trength  could  raise  ;  it  is  the  talismanic 
pearl  of  all  speech. 

A  soft  word,  that  turns  away  wrath  ;  how  great 
is  its  might !  It  has  warded  off  the  cutting  as- 
saults of  a  sharp  tongue,  even  as  a  polished  shield 
causes  the  keenest  weapon  to  glance  aside.  It  has 
disarmed -more  enemies  than  the  sword  ever  con- 
quered. 


Passing   Words,  261 

A  hopeful  word ;  how  potent  is  its  holy  exor- 
cism !  It  has  drawn  down  a  sudden  stream  of  sun- 
shine into  souls  that  were  dungeons  of  darkness, 
and  by  that  single  heavenly  ray,  has  put  to  night 
the  destroying  demons  of  despair. 

But  oh !  a  bitter  word,  impulsively  spoken,  un- 
remembered  an  hour  after,  has  it  not  sunk  deep 
into  the  hearer's  mind,  and  turned  the  sweet  wa- 
ters of  memory  to  Marah  1 

Terrible  is  the  power  of  a  passing  word  of  an- 
ger. It  has  divided  hearts  that  had  been  "  twin 
as  'twere,  in  love  inseparable ; "  its  fiery  breath 
has  forged  a  flaming  sword  to  guard  the  Gate  of 
Friendship,  that  they  who  walked  in  the  garden 
of  old  might  never  enter  more. 

"Angry  words  are  lightly  spoken, 

Bitterest  thoughts  are  rashly  stirred, 
Brightest  links  of  life  are  broken, 
By  a  single  angry  word." 

A  word  of  idle  slander,  of  thoughtless  dispar- 
agement, has  irretrievably  blasted  a  spotless  name, 
and  defiled  the  pure  vesture  of  Innocence. 

A  contemptuous  word,  a  word  of  unsympathiz- 
ing  rebuke,  carelessly  uttered,  has  hardened  a  fall- 
en spirit,  and  confirmed  it  in  obstinate  evil  doing. 

Ever  fresh  in  our  remembrance,  ever  heeded 
and  revered,  be  the  solemn  admonition: 

"  Speak  not  harshly ;  much  of  care 
Every  human  heart  must  bear  ! 


262  Passing   Words. 

Enough  of  shadows  darkly  lie 
Veiled  within  the  sunniest  eye. 
By  thy  childhood's  gushing  tears, 
By  the  griefs  of  after  years, 
By  the  anguish  thou  dost  know, 
Add  not  to  another's  woe  !  " 

On  the  lips  of  women,  at  least,  let  us  find  spon- 
taneous words  of  truth,  hope,  tenderness,  praise, 
guidance  !  Kind  words  to  their  utterance  should 
be  familiar  as  their  very  breath.  The  oftener  they 
speak  them  the  more  readily  they  will  spring  to 
their  tongues,  the  more  naturally  they  will  drop 
from  their  lips,  until  their  mouths  resemble  (at 
least,  to  the  eyes  of  angels,)  that  of  the  pure-heart- 
ed maiden  of  fairy-tale  memory,  whose  lips  let  fall 
diamonds,  pearls  and  flowers,  whenever  she  spoke; 
for  Pascal  says  :  "  Kind  words  have  been  styled 
the  flowers  of  existence ;  they  make  a  paradise  of 
home,  however  humble  it  may  be ;  they  are  the 
jewelry  of  the  heart,  the  gems  of  the  domestic  cir- 
cle, the  symbols  of  human  life." 


COUNT  YOUR  BLESSINGS. 


OUNT  your  blessings  !  "  Mine  are  soon 
counted,"  answers  a  discontented  voice, 
"I  have  so  few  —  or,  rather,  none  to 
count !  "  And  that  voice  is  the  echo  of  how  many 
complaining  hearts ! 

It  is  startling  to  note  how  seldom  people  are 
conscious  of  their  actual,  indisputable  blessings. 
Not  that  they  are  ignored  through  positive  and 
perverse  ingratitude,  but  partly  from  sheer  want 
of  reflection,  partly  because  custom  steals  the  val- 
ue from  the  boon  which  we  habitually  receive. 
And  yet,  how  bountifully  those  simple  daily  bless- 
ings are  showered  down  upon  the  poorest,  hum- 
blest, saddest  of  us  all !  And  what  loud  lamenta- 
tions we  send  up,  to  beat  against  the  pearly  gates, 
when  the  least  heeded,  the  least  prized,  the  very 
commonest,  is  denied ! 

Those  who  groan  under  the  burden  of  multiform 
sorrows,  are  usually  so  absorbed  in  their  personal 
afflictions,  that  they  let  the  scales  God  placed  in 
every  human  hand  (to  show  his  benefactions  over- 
weigh  man's  self-sprung   woes)  drop  from  their 

(263) 


264  Count  Your  Blessings, 

nerveless  grasp,  and  forget  to  balance  the  good 
gifts   granted,  against  the   seeming  evil  permitted. 

Those  who  have  no  highly  exciting  joys,  and 
yet  no  heavy  griefs,  often  lose  the  sense  of  price- 
less blessings,  in  the  stupefying  movement  of  a 
monotonous  existence. 

Those  upon  whose  heads  the  golden  rays  of 
prosperity  descend  in  unbroken  floods,  who  have 
few  wishes,  and  no  needs,  ungratificd,  are  fre- 
quently less  cognizant  than  all  others  of  the  opu- 
lent store  of  benefits  poured  out  upon  them. 

Yet  can  any  of  us  call  to  mind  a  single  being  so 
superlatively  miserable  that  in  his  saddest  past, 
most  sorrowful  present,  most  menacing  future,  he 
can  count  up  no  blessings  which  demand  the  un- 
costly, quiescent,  easy  gratitude  of  mere  recog- 
nition ] 

It  is  a  heart-expanding  practice,  daily  to  sit 
down  and  ponder  over,  and  sum  up,  the  manifest 
blessings  which  have  been  accorded  us,  and  which 
we  could  not  unmurmuringly  forego.  How  great 
will  even  those  who  cry  out  that  they  have  re- 
ceived few,  or  none,  find  their  allotted  share ! 
Try  the  experiment,  doubter,  and  see  if  this  be 
not  so ! 

That  which  we  would  miss,  if  Ave  did  not  pos- 
sess, that  which  we  would  find  fault  if  we  were 
deprived  of.  that  which  we  enjoy,  even  though  un- 
consciously, justice  commands  us  to  class  under 
the  head  of  blessings.     Instance  a  few  of  the  least 


Count  Your  Blessings.  265 

rare.  If  the  day  is  bright,  the  air  is  bracing,  or 
balmy,  are  not  those  blessings  ?  Do  you  not  rebel 
when  they  are  denied?  If  pleasant  sleep  has  vis- 
ited your  pillow,  is  not  that  a  blessing  ]  Would 
you  not  have  murmured  if  you  had  tossed  on  your 
couch  all  night  in  slumberless  unrest  I  If  you  are 
free  from  mere  bodily  pain,  is  not  that  a  blessing  \ 
Would  you  not  complain  if  you  suffered]  If  you 
are  spared  mental  anguish,  is  not  that  a  greater 
blessing  ?  would  you  not  make  a  piteous  plaint  if 
it  had  to  be  endured  ?  If  you  have  food  and  shel- 
ter for  the  day,  and  some  hope  of  it  for  the  mor- 
row, are  not  those  blessings  ?  lacking  them,  would 
you  not  be  wretched  %  If  you  have  parents,  or 
children,  wife,  husband,  lover,  friend,  to  make  you 
rich  in  affection,  is  not  love  a  blessing  ?  would  you 
not  be  miserably  poor  in  spirit  without  \  If  you 
feel  the  refreshing  charm  of  a  good  book,  a  noble 
poem,  a  delicious  piece  of  music ;  if  you  have  lis- 
tened to  an  eloquent  discourse  that  has  made  some 
grand  truth  clear  to  you;  if  you  have  enjoyed  the 
society  of  a  pure-hearted  or  intellectual  person ; 
if  you  have  received  a  passing  token  of  kindness 
from  a  friend,  a  letter  from  some  beloved  but  ab- 
sent one,  a  helpful  admonition  from  some  wise 
counsellor,  are  not  those  undeniable  blessings, 
though  such  trivial,  every-day  occurrences  \  If 
you  have  been  permitted  to  serve  some  needy 
brother,  to  comfort  some  suffering  sister,  or  if  you 
have  simply  accomplished  the  work  which  was  set 

23 


266  Count  Your  Blessings. 

for  your  hands  upon  that  day  to  do,  are  not  those 
higher  blessings  still  1  And  yet  they  are  but  a 
few,  a  very  few,  of  the  myriad  blessings  which 
might  be  enumerated  as  so  common,  and  so  liberal- 
ly dispensed,  that  we  seldom  think  of  giving  them 
their  true  name,  and,  every  hour  of  our  lives,  pass 
them  by  without  thanks,  without  thought,  without 
recognition. 

Oh !  then,  you  who  would  escape  the  sin  and 
penalty  of  ingratitude  to  Heaven,  resolve  that  it 
shall  be  one  of  the  daily  duties  of  your  life,  one  of 
its  indispensable  employments,  to  seek  out  and 
sum  up  each  day's  blessings,  and  grave  them  inef- 
faceably  upon  your  memory.  The  very  habit  will 
multiply  their  number,  will  increase  their  value, 
will  wake  some  grateful  pulse  in  the  most  thank- 
less heart,  and  draw  down  some  ray  of  light 
through  the  darkest  gloom  that  can  encompass  the 
most  troubled  spirit. 


SPARE  MOMENTS. 


PARE  moments  are  the  gold-dust  of 
time !  "  Like  a  chime  of  silver  bells 
those  words  ring  in  our  ears  as  we  hover 
about  thee,  gentle-hearted  Mabel,  —  violet  that 
perfumes  all  the  house !  —  and  watch  thee,  arid 
marvel  at  thee,  day  after  day.  Marvel  at  the  spirit 
of  accomplishing  that  seems  thy  helpful,  yet  unob- 
trusive attendant ;  at  the  soundless  motions  of  that 
invisible  but  inseparable  companion,  as  she  walks 
by  thy  side,  and  lends  her  cunning  to  thy  hands, 
and  infuses  her  spirit  of  achieving  into  thy  brain. 
Our  Mabel  is  never  fussy,  never  bustling,  never 
hurried.  She  never  flies,  with  a  whirlwind  rush, 
from  occupation  to  occupation,  and  creates  a  tor- 
nado-like atmosphere  around  her.  She  never  goes 
pantingly  about,  her  quickened  breath  and  hasten- 
ed step  giving  the  impression  that  she  is  driven  by 
the  whip  of  some  pursuing,  inexorable  Duty.  In 
short,  she  never  seems  oppressively  busy.  You 
never  hear  from  her  pleasant  lips  the  ejaculation, 
"  so  much  to  do !  "  as  an  excuse  for  neglecting 
this  or  that  matter  which  ought  to  have  received 

(267) 


268  Spare  Moments. 

attention  ;  or  as  a  reason  for  refusing  a  service  to 
a  friend ;  or  for  declining  to  aid  in  some  project 
for  the  general  advantage  ;  or  for  joining  in  some 
harmless  amusement ;  or  for  allowing  herself  what 
she  styles  "indulgence  wTork "  —  work  for  the 
gratification  of  taste,  belonging  rather  to  the 
school  of  fancy  than  of  use.  Yet  Mabel  achieves 
more  than  anybody  else  in  her  home  circle.  She 
plans  more,  begins  more ;  plenty  of  us  plan  and 
begin,  but  most  of  us  linger  on  that  threshold, 
while  she  finishes,  and  passes  quietly  on  to  new 
tasks. 

Mabel  seldom  talks  of  what  she  means  to  do,  or 
what  she  has  done.  She  does  not  flauntingly 
thrust  her  superior  industry  in  the  faces  of  her  as- 
sociates, who,  if  not  positively  indolent,  yet  lack 
her  wonderful  faculty  of  accomplishing.  She  does 
not,  in  the  faintest  degree,  resemble  those  excita- 
bly energetic  individuals  who  are  always  crying 
out  to  their  neighbors,  (if  not  in  words,  quite  as 
audibly  by  their  deeds,)  "  How  idle  and  useless 
you  are,  and  how  busy  and  valuable  I  am !  Why 
do  you  not  take  pattern  of  me  %  " 

Indeed,  Mabel  would  be  quite  startled  if  any 
one  suggested,  in  her  presence,  that  she  was  a 
model  for  others.  She  is  wholly  unconscious  that 
her  delicate  feet  are  making  "  footprints  in  the 
sands  of  time,"  into  which  other  feet  may  profit- 
ably tread. 

Occupation   does  not   seem   to  weary  her   any 


Spare  Moments.  269 

more  than  the  lustrous  stars  are  wearied  by  moving 
regularly  and  harmoniously  in  their  appointed 
cycles ;  while  the  dolce  far  niente  of  the  Italians 
would  be  more  fatiguing  to  her  than  the  most  un- 
inviting labor. 

But  it  was  not  this  circumstance,  strange  as  the 
fact  appears,  which  excited  our  admiration  and 
wonder.  The  puzzling  question  is,  how  comes  it 
that  her  work  always  brings  forth  a  richer  fruition 
than  the  industry  of  others  1  To  all  appearance, 
she  moves  less  quickly  than  some  of  her  compan- 
ions. Certes,  her  needle  does  not  fly  faster,  nor 
her  pen  run  more  fleetly,  nor  her  eyes  speed  over 
the  pages  of  a  book  more  rapidly  than  theirs. 
Nor  are  her  feet  swifter,  nor  have  her  hands  a 
more  quicksilver  motion.  Still,  when  scanning 
eyes  take  a  silent  account  of  what  has  been 
achieved  each  day,  it  is  always  placid,  unpreten- 
tious Mabel  who  can  show  the  largest  positive  re- 
sults.    How  and  why  is  this  ? 

For  a  space  that  question  remained  unanswered 
in  our  mind.  But,  watching  our  sweet  Mabel  as 
she  glided  noiselessly  through  her  day,  we  pluck- 
ed the  secret  out  of  this  mystery.  It  lay  in  Ma- 
bel's use  of  her  "  spare  moments,"  little  "  odds  and 
ends"  of  time,  intervals  between  anticipated  events, 
pauses  which  people  generally  allow  to  slip  by  un- 
filled, while  they  are  waiting  for  what  is  about  to 
happen;  the  summons  to  a  meal  not  punctually 
served ;  the  arrival  of  a  belated  friend ;  the  com- 

23* 


270  Spare  Moments. 

ing  of  a  dilatory  carriage ;  the  opening  of  the 
mail ;  the  cessation  of  unwelcome  rain  ;  or  a  hun- 
dred similar  daily  occurrences.  It  is  Mabel's  thor- 
ough appreciation  of  the  value  of  time,  and  the 
economical  employment  of  these  usually  neglect- 
ed, uncounted  moments,  which  enable  her  thus  to 
surpass  others  in  undertaking  largely,  and  accom- 
plishing proportionately ;  and  have  revealed  to  us 
the  full  interpretation  of  that  poetically  expressed 
but  practical  truth,  "Spare  moments  are  the  gold- 
dust  of  time." 


OUR  LOTS  II  LIFE. 


^F  I  had  only  been  born  in  some  other  po- 
sition !     If  I  had  the  advantages  that  my 

friend has  !     If  I  had  been  endowed 

with  such  talents  as  so  and  so  possesses  !  If  I  had 
enjoyed  as  uninterrupted  prosperity  as  such  and 
such  a  one  !  If  I  had  been  allowed  as  much  leis- 
ure as  this  or  that  person !  If  I  were  not  torment- 
ed by  so  many  petty  vexations  !  If  I  had  not  been 
bowed  down  by  such  heavy  trials,  ah !  then,  in- 
deed, I  might  have  been  a  very  different  being 
from  what  I  am !  Then  I  should  have  been  full 
of  hope  and  spirit,  full  of  patience  and  thankful- 
ness ;  then  I  should  have  accomplished  great  ends 
in  life ;  then  I  should  have  filled  a  worthy  place 
in  the  world ;  yes,  then  I  should  have  been  quite 
contented  !  "  Is  not  that  the  daily  complaint  of 
thousands,  sometimes  loudly  spoken,  often  unut- 
tered,  though  deeply  felt  % 

To  murmur  against  our  lots  in  life,  as  though 
they  had  been  distributed  by  some  blind  chance, 
is  the  very  commonest  of  the  darling  sins  which 
we  hug  to  our  thankless  hearts ;  the  favorite  de- 

(271) 


272  Our  Lots  in  Life. 

fence  of  our  indolence  and  wilfulness,  our  slow 
steps  in  the  path  of  progress,  our  casting  down  of 
appointed  fardels  on  the  road,  crying  out  that  they 
are  greater  than  we  can  bear.  And  yet,  while  we 
are  sending  up  this  heaven-upbraiding  wail,  how 
startled  and  shocked  we  would  be  at  the  assertion 
that  we  had  no  faith  in  the  existence  of  a  Supreme 
Being.  But  if  we  do  really  believe  in  that  All- 
potent  Ruler,  can  we  imagine  that  the  destinies 
of  those  creatures  he  fashioned  to  be  recipients  of 
his  bounty  (a  "  God  of  Love  "  could  not  have  cre- 
ated them  for  any  other  purpose),  are  mere  acci- 
dents, independent  of  his  will  and  providence, 
though  subject  to  his  cognizance?  He  who,  in 
his  inmost  soul,  believes  in  chance,  believes  not 
in  God  at  all. 

However  unequal,  and  apparently  unjust,  may 
seem  the  distribution  of  worldly  gifts,  of  talents, 
of  success,  of  happiness,  if  there  be  truth  in  the 
assertion  that  a  sparrow  falls  not  to  the  ground 
without  the  knowledge  of  our  Heavenly  Father, 
that  the  very  hairs  of  our  head  are  numbered,  an 
immutable  law  of  wisdom  must  rule  over  the  most 
insignificant,  as  over  the  most  important  events  of 
our  lives.  That  law,  through  all  its  mysterious 
workings,  can  only  have  for  its  end  the  promotion 
of  our  eternal  happiness.  How,  then,  shall  we 
escape  the  conviction  that  every  one,  during  this, 
his  probationary  life,  is  allowed  just  the  amount 
of  success  and  prosperity,  is  subjected  to  just  the 


Our  Lots  in  Life.  273 

degree  of  trial  and  temptation,  is  placed  in  pre- 
cisely the  situation,  which  will  develop  his  true 
character,  bring  out  his  evils  through  exciting 
causes,  that  he  may  become  aware  of  and  conquer 
them,  and  call  forth  his  noble  attributes,  that  they 
may  be  perfected  by  use ;  and  thus  that  he  may 
be  fitted  to  enjoy  the  highest  possible  felicity  here 
and  hereafter  ? 

Different  organizations  need  to  pass  through 
different  ordeals,  that  the  dross  may  be  separated 
from  the  gold. 

How  often  a  temper  that  was  very  sweet  and 
lovable,  during  years  of  smooth  prosperity,  when 
it  encounters  unexpected  opposition,  or  is  per- 
plexed by  harassing  cares,  will  evince  an  irritabil- 
ity and  bitterness  of  which  it  seemed  incapable ! 
But  if  it  learn  to  resist  the  influences  by  which  its 
amiability  was  disturbed,  its  sweetness  returns,  is 
redoubled,  and  lastingly  confirmed. 

How  often  a  disposition  appears  very  lavish  of 
benefactions  until  the  generous  impulse  is  sudden- 
ly checked  by  the  necessity  of  undergoing  personal 
privation,  in  order  to  give  !  But  if,  in  time,  joy 
in  bestowing  is  re-awakened,  despite  of  self-sacri- 
fice, then  generosity  becomes  real  and  rock- 
founded. 

How  often  a  heart  that  is  soft  and  loving  while 
other  hearts  beat  in  unison  with  its  own,  while 
tenderness  and  appreciation  keep  its  pulses  warm, 
when  exposed  to   neglect,  misrepresentation,  cold- 


274  Our  Lots  in  Life. 

ness,  grows  hard  and  frigid !  But  unless  the  ice 
melt  again,  and  the  tender  affections,  even  in  a 
chilling  atmosphere,  regain  their  ascendency,  the 
apparent  love  and  gentleness  of  that  nature  was 
spurious. 

Not  a  trial  is  sent  but  as  a  regenerating  and 
perfecting  agent.  From  the  death -like  stroke  of 
affliction,  from  the  deep  humiliation  which  covers 
us  with  sackcloth  and  ashes,  from  the  misfortunes 
that  strip  us  of  all,  the  spirit  that  can  be  purified 
rises  stronger  and  gladder,  with  upward-looking 
eyes  and  chastened  heart. 

Those  terrible  bereavements,  the  snapping  of 
those  holy  links  that  convulse  our  spirits  and  cast 
us  prostrate  on  the  earth,  in  despair,  are  only  per- 
mitted to  give  birth,  through  this  agonizing  trav- 
ail, to  some  new  and  holier  state ;  to  produce 
some  great  calm  growing  out  of  the  mind's  tem- 
pest, when  the  voice  of  the  Lord  has  spoken  to  the 
raging  waters  and  the  wild  winds  of  the  soul,  and 
said,  "Peace!     Be  still!" 

But  all  these  heavenly  ends  are  frustrated  if  we 
destroy  the  possibilities  of  happiness  implanted 
within  us,  by  idle  repining ;  if  we  cast  away  the 
mental  and  physical  instruments  apportioned  for 
our  use,  saying,  "  They  are  blunted,  they  are  not 
as  noble  as  another  man's,  they  are  unmeet  for 
us  ;  "  in  short,  if  we  murmur  at  our  lots  in  life. 

However  exposed  or  barren,  however  lowly  or 
obscure,  is  the  corner  allotted  to  us  in  our  Lord's 


Our  Lots  in  Life.  275 

vineyard,  we  should  not  have  been  placed  exactly 
in  that  locality,  unless  it  were  the  fittest  spot  for 
our  toil  and  advancement.  We  must  not  rebel 
because  another  seems  more  fortunately  situated, 
or  better  prepared  to  bring  the  ground  he  tills  to 
fruition  ;  we  must  not  complain  because  those  who 
have  not  borne  with  us  the  heat  and  labor  of  the 
day,  receive  wages  as  large  as  ours.  Unless  just 
such  work  were  needed  for  our  development,  it 
would  not  be  placed  beneath  our  hands ;  unless 
just  such  toil  were  required  for  theirs,  it  would 
not  be  entrusted  to  them.  Do  the  work,  and 
leave  the  sequel  to  God  !  When  the  servants  who 
have  been  faithful  over  little,  or  over  much,  re- 
ceive their  rewards,  the  mystery  of  our  seemingly 
unequal  lots  will  assuredly  be  revealed  to  us. 


RESPONSIBILITY. 


AM  afraid  to  undertake  it ;  the  responsi- 
bility is  too  great.  I  never  incur  a  re- 
sponsibility that  can  be  avoided  !  "  Such 
was  the  hesitating  reply  of  one  whom  the  popular 
voice  pronounced  kind  of  heart  and  blameless  of 
life,  when  a  friend  suggested  to  her  a  charitable 
action  not  easy  of  accomplishment.  The  deed  was 
one  which  necessarily  would  have  entailed  some 
trouble,  demanded  some  exertion,  and  have  been 
attended  with  some  annoyance  if  its  result  proved 
unfortunate.  But  if  a  happy  fruition  crowned  her 
efforts,  her  whole  existence  must  have  been  per- 
vaded with  a  sense  of  internal  and  lasting  satisfac- 
tion, as  the  chosen  instrument  for  such  a  noble 
work ;  one  record  would  have  been  written  upon 
her  book  of  life,  which  could  have  conjured  up 
consoling  thoughts  in  her  hour  of  bitterest  sor- 
row ;  one  memory  would  have  been  hers,  that 
might  have  shed  celestial  light  even  upon  her 
death-bed.  And  yet  the  dread  of  responsibility 
could  make  her  shrink  and  turn  aside,  and  try  to 
forget  that  she  might  have  lifted  the  burden  from 

(276) 


Besp  on  sib  ility.  277 

bowed  and  aching  hearts,  yet  did  not  touch  it  with 
a  finger ! 

"  Never  incur  a  responsibility  that  can  be  avoid- 
ed !  "  What  a  selfish,  heartless  declaration! 
What  a  shallow  resolution !  Cold  and  narrow 
and  of  fossil  hardness  is  the  life  of  those  who  keep 
their  palms  clean,  not  of  evil  and  its  consequences, 
but  of  responsibility  and  its  risks.  Such  beings 
take  but  the  one  talent  from  the  hand  of  their 
Lord,  which  is  bounteously  opened  to  bestow  ten, 
because,  forsooth,  the  ten  would  involve  greater 
responsibility.  Nay,  they  hide  even  that  one  in 
the  earth,  to  escape  the  poor  responsibility  of  put- 
ting it  out  to  usury. 

Truly,  with  what  measure  we  mete  it  shall  be 
measured  to  us ;  good  measure,  shaken  together, 
pressed  down  and  running  over,  if  such  we  give ; 
but  we  have  no  power  to  bestow  without  incurring 
responsibility.  The  bountiful  measure  of  good 
gifts,  present  and  future,  is  for  those  who,  nothing 
doubting,  assume  great  and  holy  responsibilities, 
and  discharge  them  with  steadfast  confidence. 
True,  the  more  responsibilities  we  are  content  to 
accept,  the  larger  the  number  that  will  flow  in 
upon  us,  as  though  they  were  endowed  with  a 
self-increasing  principle  ;  but  each  one  faithfully 
discharged  brings  its  compensating  joy,  and  if  the 
responsibilities  sometimes  seem  endless,  the  hap- 
piness they  purchase  will  also  prove  inexhaustible. 

Blessed  are  those  hands  to  whom  much  is  con- 

24 


278  Responsibility, 

fided,  and  who  receive  the  charge  undismayed. 
Heaven-blessed !  for  their  work  is  a  daily  laying 
up  of  treasure  above.  The  prudent  man,  the 
timid  skeptic,  the  thoughtless  worldling,  will  ac- 
cuse them  of  rashness,  perchance  will  utter  lam- 
entations over  their  insanity ;  what  matter  ? 
Conviction  and  experience  quickly  teach  these 
large-hearted,  fearless  laborers  that  new  power  is 
imparted  with  every  fresh  burden  trustingly  ac- 
cepted ;  for  there  is  a  mysterious  strength  born  of 
perfect  trust,  incomprehensible  to  those  who  never 
trusted  unreservedly. 

Landor  says,  "  We  should  bring  out  of  every 
man  and  every  creature  as  much  utility  as  we 
may."  Happy  are  they  who  apply  the  injunction 
to  themselves,  and,  seeking  to  develop  their  own 
utmost  utility,  never  evade  a  responsibility. 

Shrink  not  from  responsibility,  oh,  young  maid- 
en, just  entering,  with  faltering  feet  and  unworn 
heart,  upon  the  slippery  paths  of  life  !  Tread 
firmly,  and  stretch  out  thine  arms  to  receive  it 
with  loving  embrace  !  The  very  willingness  to  ac- 
cept the  burden  will  prevent  its  weight  from  bow- 
ing you  earthward.  But,  with  that  willingness, 
be  not  "  infirm  of  purpose,"  a  gleaner  only  in  the 
fields  of  imagination.  Let  your  resolves  go  forth 
into  positive  acts.  Heed  the  poet's  warning,  not 
to  make  of  good  intentions  a  Jacob's  ladder,  upon 
which  your  wishes  mount  to  the  skies,  whilst  you 
lie  slumbering  beneath : 


Responsibility.  279 

"  Alas  !  we  make 
A  ladder  of  our  thoughts,  where  angels  step, 
But  sleep  ourselves  at  the  foot ;  our  high  resolves 
Look  down  upon  our  slumbering  acts." 

The  responsibilities  assumed  will  oppress  and 
grieve  you  sometimes,  that  is  inevitable ;  they  will 
not  less  surely  gladden  your  heart  in  its  hour  of 
heaviness  by  the  remembrance  that  you  have  glad- 
dened others,  that  you  have  achieved  something 
in  your  day,  that  you  have  fulfilled  your  part  in 
the  great  scheme  divine,  which  allots  to  every  cre- 
ated being  a  separate  share  of  labor,  of  responsi- 
bility, of  rest,  of  reward. 


THE  UNADMIRING. 


kMONG  social  nuisances,  defend  us  from 
those  pitiable  beings  who,  through  some 
deficiency  in  their  mental  conformation, 
some  lack  of  vital  heat,  of  acute  sensibility,  of 
quick  perception,  are  totally  deprived  of  the  facul- 
ty to  appreciate  and  the  power  to  admire  !  Show 
them  a  fine  statue,  and  it  is  stone  and  marble, 
chiselled  curiously,  but  conveying  no  idea,  awaken- 
ing no  emotion.  Exhibit  an  exquisite  painting, 
the  chef-d'oeuvre  of  some  grand  old  master  ;  it  is  to 
them  merely  color  upon  canvas,  and  a  great  sur- 
plus of  darkish  paint.  Cull  them  a  fragrant  ex- 
otic ;  it  is  "  a  nice  enough  smelling  thing ;  "  but 
the  poor  flower,  withered  by  contact  with  that  un- 
congenial touch,  is  quickly  flung  aside.  Point  out 
a  living  landscape,  replete  with  the  highest  forms 
of  pastoral  beauty,  verdant  wood  and  flashing 
stream,  gently  swelling  hill  and  dimpling  valley, 
with  the  background  of  a  gorgeous  sunset,  paint- 
ing the  horizon  with  purple,  and  crimson,  and 
gold;  the  landscape  is  to  them  but  trees,  and  wa- 
ter, and  the  sun  going  down  red  enough  to  augur 

(280) 


The  Unadmiring.  281 

a  "  hot  clay "  to-morrow.  These  specimens  of 
soul-curtailed  humanity  seem  to  carry  in  their 
hands  a  disenchanting  wand,  and,  at  its  waving, 
leaf,  blossom  and  fruit  fall  from  the  tree  of  life, 
and  the  bare,  unsightly  stalk  is  left  behind ;  the 
beauty  and  poetry  of  all  creation  vanish,  and  hard, 
positive,  unspiritual  prose  alone  remains. 

You  who  are  sensitive  to  sympathetic  impres- 
sions, to  what  Swedenborgians  call  "  spheres," 
avoid  these  apathetic  beings  as  you  would  shun 
infection !  Strange  and  sad  to  say,  there  is  con- 
tagion in  the  lethargic  atmosphere  by  which  they 
are  surrounded.  Associate  with  them,  and  they 
insensibly  steal  away  from  you  the  power  of  ap- 
preciation and  admiration  which  they  themselves 
lack. 

Mr.  Quenchum  goes  with  you  to  hear  a  world- 
renowned  orator.  As  you  listen  with  rapt  atten- 
tion, his  words  conjure  a  panorama,  pulsating 
with  life  and  glowing  with  vivid  hues,  before  your 
eyes.  You  soon  become  excited  by  his  bursts  of 
eloquence,  melted  by  his  pathos,  fired  by  his  en- 
thusiasm, elevated  by  his  lofty  sentiments.  You 
turn  with  an  ejaculation  of  delight  towards 
Quenchum,  and  discover  that  a  hideous  aperture 
has  taken  the  place  of  his  mouth,  and  unmistaka- 
ble weariness  looks  out  from  its  yawning  depths. 
Abashed  at  your  own  state  of  delectation,  you 
timidly  ask  what  he  thinks  of  the  eminent  speaker. 
He  shrugs  his  shoulders,  tells  you  the  man  is  fair 

24* 


282  The  TJnadmiring. 

enough  as  times  go,  but  there  are  no  Ciceros  now- 
a-days  ;  declares  it  is  a  bore  that  people  talk  so 
long  and  make  so  much  noise  ;  wishes  that  fellow 
would  have  done  with  his  bombast ;  and  adds  that 
he  has  a  deal  of  mannerism  and  affectation,  while 
his  gestures  are  entirely  too  violent ;  it  quite  fa- 
tigues one  to  see  them !  Your  ardor  suddenly 
cools ;  you  begin  to  ask  whether  that  which  ap- 
peared to  you,  a  moment  before,  as  finished  grace, 
may  not  be  mannerism  and  affectation ;  whether 
those  gestures  are  not  too  vehement ;  whether  that 
voice  is  not  too  loud ;  and  whether  there  is  not  a 
touch  of  bombast  in  the  discourse.  You  have  be- 
gun to  criticise,  to  question  the  grounds  for  your 
enjoyment ;  the  oration  no  longer  carries  you 
away  ;  you  are  half  ashamed  or  afraid  to  recognize 
its  beauties,  while  sitting  beside  Quenchum. 

Next,  Quenchum  accompanies  you  to  the  opera. 
It  is  to  hear  a  prima  donna  who  has  gathered  lau- 
rels in  both  hemispheres,  and  received  the  ap- 
proving nod  of  crowned  heads,  the  applause  of 
sceptred  hands.  The  opera  represented  is  one  of 
Bellini's  noblest  inspirations.  You  believe  it 
physically  impossible  that  any  o;ne  can  be  insensi- 
ble to  its  soul-stirring  strains.  Ah !  you  know 
little  of  the  impervious  texture  of  Quenchum's 
soul.  Bellini  is  as  incomprehensible  to  him  as  the 
riddle  of  the  Sphinx.  Just  as  your  heart  gives  an 
inward  echo  to  the  "  bravo "  that  resounds  on 
every  side,  Quenchum  coolly  exclaims,  "  How  ab- 


The  Unadmiring.  283 

surd  !  The  idea  of  men  and  women  shouting  away 
in  that  mad  style  about  what  they  are  going  to  do 
or  what  they  have  done,  and  talking  to  each  other 
by  bawling  in  that  heathenish  fashion !  There 
certainly  is  nothing  more  monstrous  than  an 
opera!  Men  poisoning  themselves  and  singing, 
stabbing  themselves  and  singing,  going  to  battle 
or  to  execution  singing,  eating,  drinking,  getting 
married  or  getting  killed,  singing !  It's  highly 
amusing,  but  precious  nonsense  !  " 

"  But,"  you  answer,  hesitatingly,  and  beginning 
to  perceive  some  element  of  the  ludicrous  in  the 
performance  which  just  now  awakened  your  rap- 
ture, ;i  but  what  a    glorious  voice  Madame 

has  !  Is  it  not  perfect  melody  %  Such  power  and 
such  sweetness  combined !  Don't  you  like  her 
voice  I 

"  Oh  !  I  dare  say  her  voice  is  good  enough  ;  it's 
not  particularly  disagreeable  ;  it's  very  so-so  ;  but 
there  are  no  great  singers  now-a-days." 

Startled  by  such  a  denouncing  assertion,  you 
venture  to  remark,  "  Perhaps  you  do  not  care  for 
music  ;  perhaps  you  have  no  —  no  —  no  ear." 

"  No  ear  %  Why,  I  suppose  I  can  hear  all  that 
din  (meaning  a  magnificent  chorus)  as  plainly  as 
anybody  else." 

Of  course  Quenchum  has  no  ear ;  none  of  the 
family  of  Nil  Admirantem  have  musical  ears  or 
artistic  eyes ;  if  they  had,  they  could  not  be  scions 
of  that  pulseless  race. 


284  The   Unadmiring. 

Quenchum  annihilates  your  prima  donna,  as  he 
extinguished  your  orator. 

Anon  you  find  yourself  travelling  with  Quench- 
um. He  is  one  of  a  party  crossing  the  Blue  Ridge 
of  Virginia.  The  grandeur  of  that  august  chain 
of  mountains  strikes  you  with  admiring  awe.  The 
picturesque  and  sublime  are  so  wonderfully  min- 
gled that  you  almost  hold  your  breath  as  you  con- 
template Nature  in  this  imposing  robe  of  majesty. 
Quenchum  sits  back  in  the  stage-coach,  which  is 
ascending  the  winding  road  up  the  mountain's  side, 
glances  out  of  the  window  to  see  what  you  "  are 
making  such  a  fuss  about,"  and  remarks  that  "  it 
may  all  be  very  h'ne,  but  a  level  road  would  be  far 
preferable,  the  coach  would  travel  so  much  faster, 
and  get  out  of  these  tiresome  mountains  more 
quickly ! " 

You  visit  the  Natural  Bridge  and  Weyer's 
marvellous  cave,  and  other  noteworthy  places. 
Quenchum  pronounces  the  bridge  a  tolerable 
specimen  of  nature's  handiwork,  but  he  don't 
think  it  remarkably  high,  nor  by  any  means  per- 
fect in  its  form,  nor,  indeed,  extraordinary  in  any 
way.  The  cave  he  pronounces  a  "  downright 
swindle  !  "  He  can  discover  none  of  the  beautiful 
sculpturing  with  which  you  are  all  enchanted ;  he 
cannot  make  out  Solomon's  throne,  with  its  oriental 
canopy,  nor  the  falls  of  Niagara,  nor  the  statue  of 
Washington,  nor  the  garden  of  Paradise ;  and 
frigidly  asserts  that  these  subterranean  wonders 
are  the  most  "  unmitigated  humbugs." 


The    Unadmiring.  285 

Go  where  you  will,  it  is  all  the  same.  Quench- 
um  yawns  when  everybody  else  admires  ;  Quench- 
um  is  weary  when  they  are  enraptured ;  and  just 
as  their  enthusiasm  is  roused  to  the  highest  pitch, 
Quenchum  is  found  to  be  asleep.  But  his  un- 
idealizing  presence  is  felt  by  the  whole  party. 
His  companions  are  half  afraid  or  ashamed  to 
praise  the  works  of  God  himself,  since  Quenchum 
finds  so  little  to  reverence  and  so  much  to  censure 
in  what  God  has  achieved. 

Can  such  a  man  worship  ?  Are  not  all  his  de- 
votional feelings  stifled  by  the  heavy  atmosphere 
of  apathy  that  envelops  his  spirit  ]  Paley  tells  us 
that  the  unconscious  enjoyment  of  the  mere  sense 
of  being,  is  to  his  mind  one  of  the  most  convincing 
proofs  of  God's  goodness.  Can  God  seem  good  to 
one  who  perceives  nothing  good,  nothing  enjoy- 
able in  his  own  existence,  or  in  the  works  of  the 
Supreme  Being  ? 

If  men  carry  with  them  to  the  other  world,  as 
they  surely  must,  the  traits  that  compose  their 
characters  in  this,  Quenchum's  emotionless  nature 
must  be  an  eternal  blasphemy,  an  everlasting 
curse.  What  would  heaven  be  to  such  a  man  1 
Would  he  not  find  the  supernal  regions  a  very  tire- 
some locality,  the  songs  of  seraphs  "  so-so,"  and 
the  company  of  angels  a  complete  nuisance  1 


THE  CAPACITY  FOR  ENJOYMENT 


iBATITUDE  emanates  from  the  sense  of 
guileless  enjoyment,  as  perfume  rises 
from  the  flower.  The  sombre  shadow 
of  premature  decay  rests  upon  the  youngest  being, 
the  instant  that  he  ceases  to  enjoy.  The  child  en- 
joys involuntarily,  unreasoningly ;  its  spontaneous 
gladness  gushes  forth  like  the  matin  song  of  the 
lark,  and,  like  the  lark's  carol,  it  is  an  unconscious 
hymn  of  thanks  for  the  capacity  it  has  received. 
But  as  childhood  merges  into  youth,  youth  into 
manhood,  how  often  the  blessed  faculty  of  enjoy- 
ment decreases  until  it  is  wholly  lost ! 

Pity  the  man  from  whom  it  has  departed,  for  its 
absence  speaks  of  mental  and  physical  abuse ;  of 
unholy  indulgence  that  vitiates  the  taste,  of  satiety 
that  palls  the  appetite,  of  sin  that  destroys  the 
powers.  All  the  bloom  of  his  existence  has  been 
rudely  brushed  away.  The  finest  chords  of  his 
spirit  have  become  voiceless.  Touch  them  with 
the  finger  of  Nature,  of  Art,  of  Feeling,  they  give 
forth  no  sound.  The  dust  of  life's  prosaic  cares 
collects  upon  his  heart,  until  no  wind  of  heaven, 

(286) 


The  Capacity  for  Enjoyment  287 

however  fragrant  or  refreshing,  can  disperse  the 
ashy  heap.  Can  this  be  in  accordance  with  the 
laws  of  order]  Is  not  the  highest  happiness 
promised  as  the  guerdon  of  the  greatest  goodness  % 
What  would  avail  the  offered  gift,  without  the  ca- 
pacity to  receive  the  boon  1  It  was  manifestly  de- 
signed that  we  should  guard  and  cultivate  this 
Heaven-bestowed  faculty  for  enjoyment.  In  a 
healthful,  grateful,  coherent  mind,  it  may  be  pre- 
served, increased,  matured  from  year  to  year,  even 
to  the  very  sunset  of  existence.  The  objects  by 
which  it  is  awakened  vary,  the  species  of  enjoy- 
ment itself  changes ;  but  the  expanding  of  the 
soul  to  pleasurable  sensations  remains. 

Mark  how  quickly  the  man  who  wraps  himself 
up  in  mere  business  avocations,  and  walks  plod- 
dingly, with  head  bent  earthward,  to  his  labors, 
loses  his  taste  for  the  beauties  of  nature,  for  litera- 
ture, for  music,  for  the  arts,  for  all  elevating  and 
refining  pursuits.  See  how  he  carries  to  his  fire- 
side a  dull  and  joyless  influence,  which  even  the 
smiles  of  a  tender  wife  and  the  prattle  of  lovely 
children  cannot  counteract.  With  him  the  ca- 
pacity for  enjoyment  is  not  merely  uncultivated, 
but  stifled  ;  nipped  in  the  bud.  It  has  never  been 
permitted  to  force  a  single  blossom  through  the 
sheath  of  circumstance.  And  when  in  a  few  years 
the  man  acquires  the  great  wealth  for  which  he 
bartered  this  precious  faculty,  when  rest  invites 
him,  and  even  prudence  bids  him  relax  his  labors, 


288  The  Capacity  for  Enjoyment. 

that  his  risks  may  cease,  where  are  his  resources 
against  weariness  ?  Not  all  his  gold  can  purchase 
back  the  lost  capacity  for  enjoyment. 

Do  not  imagine  that  by  enjoyment  we  mean  the 
frittering  away  of  life  in  the  pursuit  of  trivialities 
commonly  termed  pleasure,  but  the  recognition, 
the  appreciation,  of  the  thousand  daily  blessings 
that  are  spread  before  our  careless  eyes.  Work 
itself,  and  the  performance  of  every-day  duties,  are 
allied  to  enjoyment  in  a  cheerful  nature  —  or  at 
least  they  give  to  enjoyment  the  zest  that  hunger 
imparts  to  the  simplest  food. 

No  man  loses  the  capacity  to  enjoy  sooner  than 
the  luxurious  idler.  Listless  inactivity  is  an  incu- 
bus upon  the  soul,  that  gradually  deadens  its  pow- 
ers, until  at  last  a  pleasant  emotion  becomes  an 
unhoped-for  though  much  coveted  event,  a  positive 
thrill  of  rapture,  an  occurrence  barely  possible. 
Thus  the  mind  of  the  world-worn  blase  is  involun- 
tarily closed  up  against  the  influent  heavens,  from 
whence  all  pure  enjoyment  descends. 

The  selfish  man  impairs  this  faculty  not  less  in- 
evitably. He  substitutes  a  cold  and  spurious 
gratification  for  the  genuine  emotion,  and  too 
surely  discovers  that  the  retributive  pang  and 
penalty  united  to  the  former,  can  never  be  es- 
caped. 

True  happiness  must  be  communicated.  It  is 
intensified  and  increased  in  proportion  to  its  par- 
ticipation with  others.     The  greater  the  number 


The  Capacity  of  Enjoyment,  289 

of  recipients,  the  deeper,  purer,  and  more  inef- 
fable the  joy  experienced  by  the  communicator. 
Can  angels  know  a  higher  felicity  than  the  bliss 
of  initiating  the  redeemed  into  their  own  states  of 
beatitude  ? 

Happiness  would  not  be  so  rare,  so  fleeting,  nor 
should  we  pursue  the  fugitive  through  so  many 
forbidden  paths,  if  the  healthy  eapacity  for  enjoy- 
ment were  cultivated  as  an  actual,  essential  virtue. 
The  mental  powers  would  be  preserved  in  peren- 
nial freshness,  the  poetry  of  existence  would  not 
be  stripped  away  with  the  blossoms  of  youth,  En- 
nui would  not  be  the  presiding  genius  in  so  many 
households,  nor  ingratitude  for  simple  blessings 
the  dominant  sin  of  so  many  hearts. 

25 


THE  LOVE  OF  EXCITEMENT 


DELINE  ARDEN  is  but  eighteen.  Do 
not  judge  her  too  harshly  if  nerves  high- 
ly strung,  and  a  temperament  at  once 
impressible  and  impetuous,  manifest  themselves  in 
contrarious  moods,  multiform  inconsistencies,  and 
a  state  of  unrest  that  craves  incessant  excitement. 
Deprived  of  that  impetus,  she  sinks  down  power- 
less, her  energies  quenched,  her  mind  a  stagnant 
pool.  What  wonder  that  she  hails  as  an  angel's 
touch  any  hand  that  "  troubles  the  waters,"  as 
those  of  Bethesda  were  stirred  of  old  !  She  hard- 
ly asks  whether  the  welcome  disturber  be  a  spirit 
of  good  or  evil ;  she  is  rewakened,  revivified  in 
the  rushing  vortex  ;   that  is  enough. 

Her  vehement  nature  constantly  demands  strong 
and  rapid  emotional  changes.  When  her  feet  are 
in  swift  pursuit  of  some  inspiring  object,  when  her 
veins  swell  with  their  leaping  current,  when  her 
thoughts  kindle  with  flashes  of  enthusiasm,  when 
her  heart  is  thrilled  with  acute  feeling,  called  forth 
by  some  actual  incident,  some  ideal  personation, 
or  evoked  from  the  pages  of  some  highly- wrought 

(29) 


The  Love  of  Excitement.  291 

fiction,  then  only  she  seems  to  herself  to  exist. 
Excitement  is  to  her  the  vital  spark,  the  breath  of 
life.  It  is  a  phantom  which  she  chases  through 
every  path  the  demon  haunts.  She  dances  after 
it  in  the  ball-room ;  she  diligently  seeks  for  it  in 
places  of  public  entertainment;  she  looks  for  it 
even  in  the  temple  of  Love ;  she  hopes  to  find  it 
in  the  very  church  of  God.  Yes,  she  will  alike 
desecrate  devotion  to  man  and  worship  for  her 
Creator,  bv  regarding  them  as  sensation  mediums. 
Thus  she  yields  to  the  fascinations  of  the  "  tender 
passion,"  not  for  the  sake  of  love,  but  of  emotion ! 
She  indulges  in  what  has  aptly  been  styled  ;'  re- 
ligious dissipation,"  not  for  the  sake  of  piety,  but 
of  excitement ! 

And  yet,  let  her  pursue  the  Protean  shadow 
where  she  will,  it  treacherously  melts  from  her 
grasp  when  found,  and  leaves  her  exhausted  by 
the  race,  depressed  by  the  inevitable  re-action,  her 
mental  and  physical  faculties  collapsed  until  new 
and  powerful  stimulus  rouses  them  into  some  fresh 
activity,  alas  !  only  to  be  followed  by  equally  pros- 
trating results. 

Adeline's  friends  mourn  over  her  short- comings, 
and,  making  no  allowance  for  the  errors  conse- 
quent upon  her  fervent  temperament,  predict  the 
most  frightful  fruition  from  this  insatiable  passion 
for  excitement.  In  vain  they  warn  her  of  the 
precipice  towards  which  she  is  hurrying  !  The 
very  danger  heightens  her  enjoyment !      In  vain 


292  The  Love  of  Excitement. 

they  would  forcibly  restrain  her  as  she  rashly 
presses  on  ;  while  they  contemplate  the  abyss  into 
which  she  may  be  plunged  with  shuddering  hor- 
ror, she  stands  upon  its  brink  in  reckless  exulta- 
tion ! 

True,  her  delirious  infatuation  is  sufficiently 
alarming ;  but  why  not  seek  a  more  attainable 
remedy  than  that  of  a  miraculous  metamorphosis 
of  her  whole  nature,  through  menacing  counsels 
and  compulsive  restrictions  ! 

Her  sensibilities  are  keen,  do  not  strive  to  blunt 
them  ;  if  you  succeed,  you  will  only  make  her 
hard  and  dull,  exchanging  one  evil  for  another. 
Rest  is  distasteful  to  her  ;  do  not  force  her  into  re- 
pose which  produces  lethargic  stagnation.  Mo- 
notony stupefies  her  ;  do  not  hope  to  train  her 
rapid  feet  into  the  slow  and  even  round  of  a  hum- 
drum existence.  But  turn  the  rushing,  bubbling 
current  of  her  thoughts  and  acts  into  a  pure  chan- 
nel, where  the  stream  may  dance  and  sparkle  still, 
yet  minister  to  some  use.  Substitute  for  the  allur- 
ing phantom  which  she  now  chases,  some  real  and 
holy  shape.  Give  the  needful  stimulus  to  her 
gasping  energies  through  some  engrossing  occupa- 
tion. Excite  her  interest  in  doing  good  —  in  com- 
municating happiness  —  in  promoting  noble  ob- 
jects. If  her  heart  be  unvitiated,  her  very  love 
for  excitement  may  be  made  to  lean  to  virtue's 
side  —  may  become  a  powerful  agent  in  achieving 
glorious  ends. 


The  Love  of  Excitement.  293 

Has  not  this  same  unsatisfied  passion  for  excite- 
ment impelled  women  into  paths  as  full  of  bene- 
faction as  those  consecrated  by  the  hallowing  steps 
of  a  Florence  Nightingale,  a  Miss  Dix,  or  a  Grace 
■  Darling  %  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  we  have 
known  instances  in  which  it  has  produced  these 
happy  results  ;  and,  were  it  fitting,  we  could  cite 
them  to  vindicate  an  assertion  as  true  as  it  is  bold. 

That  very  disquiet — that  sleepless  activity  which 
we  condemn  in  Adeline  —  is  but  the  curbless  im- 
pulse of  a  vigorous  spirit  to  do  something,  to  feel 
something,  to  be  conscious  of  its  own  powers  of 
thought,  feeling  and  action.  That  ceaseless  leap- 
ing forward,  and  leaping  upward,  which  belong  to 
such  temperaments  is  not  in  itself  an  evil.  The 
same  up-springing,  unslumbering  motion  causes  all 
creation  to  palpitate,  and  expand,  and  fructify. 

Let  us  not  then  rashly  rebuke  the  restless  excit- 
ability of  an  untrained  and  ardent  nature.  Let  us 
not  say  to  such  a  being  as  Adeline  :  "  You  shall 
forego  all  these  varied  excitements  for  which  you 
yearn  —  which  you  seem  to  need  to  render  your 
life  agreeable  —  nay,  endurable  !  You  shall  not 
partake  of  amusements  which  you  find  so  exhilar- 
ating. You  shall  not  read  books  which  engross 
you  so  entirely.  You  shall  not  enjoy  the  society 
of  those  who  have  such  power  over  your  emo- 
tions !  " 

Instead  of  these  admonitions  and  restrictions, 
give  her  wholesome  and  invigorating,  ay,  and  suf- 

25* 


294  The  Love  of  Excitement. 

ficiently  stimulating  mental  nourishment.  Do  not 
deny  her  amusements,  but  see  that  they  are  ration- 
al, that  they  are  intellectually  or  physically  profit- 
able. Supply  her  with  books  of  deep  interest,  but 
let  their  pages  be  so  pure  that  they  can  awaken 
none  but  holy  thoughts,  and  impart  none  but  high 
aspirations.  Place  her  in  the  midst  of  agreeable 
associates,  but  be  certain  that  they  are  beings 
whose  influence  will  aid  in  moulding  and  balanc- 
ing  her  character.  And,  above  all,  furnish  her 
with  agreeable  employment.  Let  her  exuberant 
activity  expend  itself  in  work  !  work  !  work  !  To 
such  as  she,  the  most  aidant  and  remediant  of 
agents  !  Lethe  and  nepenthe  combined !  Mark, 
if  the  result  does  not  prove  that  this  very  love  of 
excitement,  the  curse  and  destruction  of  many  a 
richly  dowered  spirit,  can,  through  wise  direction, 
be  made  the  medium  of  developing,  perfecting,  and 
beautifying  a  disposition  in  which  it  is  inherent. 


MAIDENHOOD  IN  LOVE. 


}N  nature,  what  flower  puts  on  its  most 
brilliant  hues,  or  expands  in  its  fullest 
perfection,  before  the  sun's  caressing 
warmth  and  tingent  light  call  forth  the  hidden  pos- 
sibilities of  its  species  \  In  womanhood,  what 
character  assumes  its  most  radiant  coloring,  or  de- 
velops its  highest  beauty  before  its  mysterious  ca- 
pabilities are  evoked  by  the  electric  touch  of  love  ? 
We  do  not  use  the  word  lightly.  We  do  not  al- 
lude to  that  weather-vane  of  fancy  which  turns 
with  every  accidental  breath  ;  that  evanescent  pen- 
chant which  leans  wherever  novelty  attracts  ;  that 
passing  passion  which  evaporates  like  morning 
dew — which  belongs  to  the  morning  season  of  im- 
pressible temperaments.  It  is  only  upon  a  pure, 
holy,  and  lasting  emotion  that  we  can  bestow  the 
name  of  love  without  fear  of  desecration. 

That  love  enters  reverently  into  the  inmost  sanc- 
tuary of  a  maiden's  heart,  fills  her  mind  with  one 
sovereign  image,  rises  like  a  sun  in  the  firmament 
of  her  soul,  and  imbues  her  whole  world  of 
thought  and  feeling  with  its  own  tints.     Then  falls 

(295) 


296  Maidenhood  in  Love. 

the  beautifying  veil  of  moss  upon  the  roses  of  her 
youth.  The  soft  bloom  diffuses  itself  over  the 
grapes  for  life's  vintage.  Hope's  whispering  voice 
of  promise  makes  perpetual  music  in  her  ears. 
The  golden  haze  of  anticipation  envelops  her  fu- 
ture in  misty  glory.  She  moves  in  an  atmosphere 
of  festal  joy.  All  germs  of  goodness,  and  strength, 
and  loveliness,  lying  dormant  in  the  depths  of  her 
spirit,  are  quickened.  Her  very  existence  seems 
suddenly  enlarged. 

Often  she  is  unconscious  of  this  marvellous  rev- 
olution. She  does  not  pause  to  analyze  her  own 
tumultuous  sensations.  Though  the  sound  of  a 
coming  step,  his  well-known  step,  makes  her 
pulses  throb  with  almost  painful  pleasure  ;  though 
his  lightest  tone  thrills  her,  even  when  the  words 
are  unheard  ;  though  at  the  mention  of  his  name, 
coupled  with  praise,  she  smiles  unaware,  and  vain- 
ly seeks  to  repress  the  involuntary  blush,  she  hides 
from  herself,  as  long  as  possible,  that  love  throbbed 
in  her  pulses,  thrilled  her  with  that  voice,  woke 
that  smile,  and  conjured  up  that  blush. 

But  when  the  tender  knowledge  presses  upon 
her,  when  the  sweet  confession  has  once  been 
drawn  from  her,  when  she  has  once  yielded  up  her 
heart,  how  lavishly  she  pours  out  its  whole  wealth  b 
Like  Juliet,  her  "  bounty  is  as  boundless  as  the 
sea,  her  love  as  deep,"  and  the  more  she  gives  the 
larger  grows  her  store,  until  love  and  bounty  both 
prove   infinite.     Like   Portia,  unambitious  in  her 


Maidenhood  in  Love,  297 

wish  for  her  own  aggrandizement,  yet,  for  her  lov- 
er's sake,  she  fondly  desires  to  be  "  trebled  twenty 
times  herself,  a  thousand  times  more  fair,  ten 
thousand  times  more  rich."  And  while  she  be- 
stows so  profusely,  and  desires  to  possess  in  greater 
abundance  that  she  may  have  the  power  to  im- 
part more  munificently,  how  little  she  demands  in 
return !  Yes,  little,  if  we  set  aside  the  playful,  or 
coquettish  exactions  of  her  inborn,  womanly  ca- 
price. Is  it  not  little  to  be  trustingly  content  with 
mere  words  ;  to  be  satisfied  with  assurances  that 
she  is  beloved ;  to  require  no  actions,  no  sacrifices 
as  proofs  of  that  passion  1  And  what  loving  wo- 
man demands  any  ]  even  at  the  moment  when  an 
irresistible  impulse  prompts  her  to  offer  the 
strongest  evidences  of  her  own  self-abnegating, 
unmeasured,  unbartered  aifection.  Sometimes  she 
even  appears  to  rejoice  in  the  trials  that  test  the 
strength  of  her  devotion  ;  to  glory  in  the  oppo- 
sition that  proves  its  powers  of  resistance.  No 
ordeal  seems  too  great  for  her  heroism  to  tempt. 
Wrapped  in  Love's  protecting  banner,  she  knows 
that  she  will  pass  through  victoriously. 

It  is  strange  to  see  how  quickly  she  merges  her 
own  identity  into  that  of  the  man  whom  she  loves  ; 
how  involuntarily  she  lays  aside  her  own  volition, 
and  looks  with  his  eyes,  and  reflects  his  thoughts, 
and  unknowingly  illustrates  to  him  the  truth  of 
Coleridge's  declaration,  that  "  love  is  the  comple- 
tion of  our  being  in  another." 


298  Maidenhood  in  Love 

Passing  strange  is  it  too,  to  behold  a  young 
maiden  upon  whom  affection  has  been  richly 
poured  from  her  cradle,  who  has  literally  been  the 
idol  of  her  home,  turn  from  all  these  life-long  wor- 
shippers to  a  comparative  stranger,  and  cling  to 
him  with  a  tacit  declaration  that  the  love  of  all  is 
outweighed  by  the  love  of  one  ;  that  the  very  blame 
of  that  one  is  more  precious  than  the  praises  of  all 
others. 

Strange,  indeed,  to  find  her  ready  to  make  any 
sacrifice,  to  renounce  any  happiness,  to  forego  any 
advantage,  that  she  may  share  his  future.  Alas  ! 
too  often  to  see  her  willing  to  wound  the  tenderest 
of  mothers,  the  truest  of  fathers,  to  save  that 
stranger  an  hour's  pain,  or  give  him  a  moment's 
pleasure.  At  the  first  blush  this  reckless,  unrea- 
soning, all-absorbing  devotion  seems  unnatural ; 
and  yet  it  is  in  strict  accordance  with  Nature's  un- 
alterable law.  Love  —  true  Love  is  the  supreme 
ruler ;  the  omnipotent  sovereign  over  the  heart's 
whole  empire,  and  all  human  affections  are  but  its 
subjects. 

True  love  ]  Where  is  the  Ithuriel  spear  that  will 
teach  us  to  recognize  this  God-blessed  Love  from 
the  "  Puck  of  Passion  "  ?  Bring  the  one,  great,  un- 
failing touchstone,  and  try  the  thousand  pleasant 
cheats  we  irreverently  call  "  love,"  and  how  few 
will  not  melt  at  the  touch,  or  assume  some  meaner 
form,  and  take  some  lower  title  !  The  only  test  of 
love  is  its  immutability.     The  heavenly  spark  kin- 


Maidenhood  in  Love.  299 

died  by  the  Divine  Hand  shares  the  immortality  of 
that  great  source  from  whence  all  love  descends. 
The  flame  cannot  expire. 

"  From  heaven  it  came  to  heaven  returneth." 

Thus,  Love  cannot  recede,  it  cannot  stand  still ; 
it  must  obey  the  law  of  eternal  progression,  must 
advance  onward  and  upward,  must  grow  stronger, 
broader,  purer,  with  every  hour  of  its  existence. 
If  it  falter,  languish,  cool,  it  is  not  love, —  never 
was  love,  —  never  can  become  love. 

The  most  exquisite  illustration  which  we  have 
ever  met,  of  the  affluent  love  of  a  high-souled  wo- 
man, is  that  given  by  Mrs.  Browning  in  her  Portu- 
guese Sonnets.  Surely,  a  truer,  fuller  love-utter- 
ance never  rang  out  from  woman's  heart  and  lips  ! 
Yet  Mrs,  Browning  has  only  painted,  with  start- 
ling force  and  unsurpassable  eloquence,  the  emo- 
tions which  thousands  of  women  who  love  have, 
either  consciously  or  unconsciously,  experienced ; 
though  few  women,  if  any,  have  been  gifted  with 
her  miraculous  power  of  breathing  forth  her  in- 
most soul  in  rythmic  concord  of  sweet  sounds. 
What  woman  who  has  loved,  oris  capable  of  loving, 
will  find  our  quotations  too  ample  1 

The  sonnets  are  addressed  by  the  (supposed) 
Portuguese  lady  to  her  lover.  She  portrays  to  him 
how  entirely  by  love,  "The  face  of  all  the  world 
is  changed,"  to  the  eyes  of  her  who  loves  ;  how 
beautifully  she  is  "  taught  the  whole  of  life  in  a 
new  rhythm."     How  even 


300  Maidenhood  in  Love. 

1 1  The  name  of  country  —  heaven  —  is  changed  away 
For  where  thou  art  or  shall  be  —  there  or  here." 

She  tells  him  that 

"  The  widest  land 
Doom  takes  to  part  us,  leaves  thy  hand  in  mine 
With  pulses  that  beat  double.     What  I  do 
And  what  I  dream  include  thee,  as  the  wine 
Must  taste  of  its  own  grapes.     And  when  I  sue 
God  for  myself,  he  hears  that  name  of  thine 
And  sees  within  mine  eyes  the  tears  of  two." 

She  shows  him  how  worthy  of  acceptance  is  the 
love  of  the  most  humhle  ;  how  beautiful  is  mere 
love  itself;  how  impossible  it  is  that  there  should 
be  anything  low  in  love,  even  when  the  lowliest 
love ;  how  God  accepts  the  Jove  of  the  meanest 
creatures,  because  they  love.  How  through  her 
love,  she  stands  transfigured  and  glorified  in  her 
lover's  presence,  and 

"  How  that  great  work  of  love  enhances  nature's." 

She  pleads  that  he  may  not  love  her  for  her  de- 
serts, which  she  accounts  poor,  and  says  : 

"  If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  naught 
Except  for  love's  sake  only.     Do  not  say 
I  love  her  for  her  smile  —  her  look  — her  way. 
Of  speaking  gently  —  for  a  trick  of  thought 
Which  falls  in  well  with  mine,  and  certes  brought 
A  sense  of  pleasant  ease  on  such  a  day  — 
For  these  things  in  themselves,  beloved,  may 
Be  changed,  or  change  for  thee  —  and  love  so  wrought, 
May  be  unwrought  so.     Neither  love  me  for 
Thine  own  dear  pity's  wiping  my  cheeks  dry  — 


Maidenhood  in  Love.  301 

Since  one  might  well  forget  to  weep  who  bore 
Thy  comfort  long,  and  lose  thy  love  thereby. 
But  love  me  for  love's  sake,  that  evermore 
Thou  mayest  love  on  through  love's  eternity." 

She  gives  him  a  lock  of  hair,  the  first  she  ever 
gave  to  man,  the  lock  where  he  will  find  pure  the 
kiss  her  mother  gave  her  when  she  died  ;  and  tells 
him  that  "  the  soul's  Eialto  hath  its  merchandise," 
and  she  "  barters  curl  for  curl  upon  that  mart," 
and  claims  a  lock  from  his  brow  to  lay  upon  her 
heart,  where  it  shall  lack  no  natural  heat  until  that 
heart  grows  cold  in  death. 
.  The  womanly  adjuration  "tell  me  you  love 
me ! "  is  one  familiar  to  the  ears  of  all  men  who 
have  been  devotedly  loved.  Few  of  them  can  have 
failed  to  discover  that  a  woman  is  never  tired  of 
being  told  what  she  knows  so  well.  The  Portu- 
guese lady,  with  the  same  earnest  yearning  to  hear 
what  she  already  believes,  exclaims  : 


*■*  Say  over  again,  and  yet  once  over  again 

That  thou  dost  love  me  ! " 


And  adds  in  vindication  of  her  longing  to  hear 
that  sweet  assurance, 

"  Who  can  fear 
Too  many  stars,  though  each  in  heaven  should  roll  ? 
Too  many  flowers,  though  each  should  crown  the  year? 
Say  thou  dost  love  me  —  love  me  —  love  me — toll 
The  silver  iterance  —  only  minding,  dear, 
To  love  me  also  in  silence,  with  thy  soul." 


302  Maidenhood  in  Love. 

She  turns  to  her  letters  and  musingly  loosens 
the  string  that  bound  them,  and  lets  them  drop 
upon  her  knees.  Though  they  are  but  "  dead  pa- 
per, mute  and  white,"  to  her  they  seem  "  alive  and 
quivering"  against  her  tremulous  hands.  She  ten- 
derly reminds  him  what  this  said,  and  what  that ; 
a  simple  thing,  and  yet  it  made  her  weep.  And 
she  tells  him  how  she  "  sank  and  quailed " 
when  she  read  the  one  which  held  those  words, 
"  Dear,  I  love  thee  !  "  and  how  the  ink  of  another 
had  paled  by  lying  upon  her   fast-beating  heart. 

Then,  with  that  vague  sense  of  fear  which  every 
woman  feels  at  the  contemplation  of  yielding  up 
all  for  one,  she  asks  him,  solemnly : 

"  If  I  leave  all  for  thee,  wilt  thou  exchange 
And  be  all  to  me  ?     Shall  I  never  miss 
Home-talk  and  blessing,  and  the  common  kiss 
That  comes  to  each  in  turn,  nor  count  it  strange 
When  I  look  up,  to  drop  on  a  new  range 
Of  walls  and  floors  —  another  home  than  this  ? 
Nay,  wilt  thou  fill  that  place  by  me  which  is 
Filled  by  dead  eyes  too  tender  to  know  change  ?  " 

With  reverent  words,  almost  with  holy  awe,  she 
dwells  upon  the  memory  of  his  first  kisses. 

"  First  time  he  kissed  me,  he  but  only  kissed 
The  fingers  of  this  hand  wherewith  I  write, 
And  evermore  it  grew  more  clean  and  white, 
Slow  to  world  greetings  —  quick  with  its  '  oh,  list! ' 
When  the  angels  speak.     A  ring  of  amethyst 
I  could  not  wear  here  plainer  to  my  sight, 
Than  that  first  kiss.     The  second  passed  in  height 


Maidenhood  in  Love.  303 

The  first,  and  sought  the  forehead,  and  half  missed, 

Half  falling  on  the  hair.     O,  beyond  meed ! 

That  was  the  chrism  of  love,  which  love's  own  crown, 

With  sanctifying  sweetness  did  precede. 

The  third  upon  my  lips  was  folded  down 

In  perfect,  purple  state  !     Since  when,  indeed, 

I  have  been  proud,  and  said  —  '  My  love,  my  own ! ' " 

She  tries  to  measure  that  which  is  measureless 
—  her  love  for  him. 

"  How  do  I  love  thee,  let  me  count  the  ways ; 
I  love  thee  to  the  depth,  and  breadth,  and  height, 
My  soul  can  reach,  when  feeling  out  of  sight 
For  the  ends  of  being  and  ideal  grace  — 
I  love  thee  to  the  level  of  every  day's 
Most  quiet  need,  by  sun  and  candle-light. 
I  love  thee  freely,  as  men  strive  for  right, 
I  love  thee  purely,  as  they  turn  from  praise ; 
I  love  thee  with  the  passion  put  to  use 
In  my  old  griefs,  and  with  my  childhood's  faith; 
I  love  thee  with  a  love  I  seemed  to  lose 
With  my  lost  saints  —  I  love  thee  with  the  breath, 
Smiles,  tears  of  all  my  life  ! — and  if  God  choose, 
I  shall  but  love  thee  better  after  death!  " 

After  that  inspired  outburst  of  woman's  perfect 
love,  what  word  can  be  added  ? 


BACHELORHOOD  IN  LOVE. 


>F  we  place  beside  our  slight,  imperfect 
sketch  of  "  Maidenhood  in  Love,"  its  cor- 
responding pendant  of  Bachelorhood  in 
Love,  be  it  understood,  that  the  latter,  ruder  por- 
trait is  designed  solely  for  the  contemplation  of  our 
fair  young  sisters  throughout  the  land.  Their  lov- 
ers may  naturally  raise  an  outcry  against  this  un- 
ceremonious lifting  of  the  finely  painted  masks 
which  they  assume  for  the  courting  field,  as  punc- 
tiliously as  knights  of  old,  who  battled  for  ladye 
love,  let  down  their  vizors  for  the  tournament. 
But  the  alarmed  wooers  have  little  to  fear  from  our 
revelations.  Though  we  should  unsparingly  tear 
from  their  faces  the  charming  counterfeit,  every 
love-blinded  maiden  would  refuse  to  recognize  the 
beloved  one's  lineaments  beneath ;  would  cling  to 
the  bewitching  mask,  and  fondly  pronounce  it  the 
veritable  countenance. 

And  yet,  gentle  sister,  the  mask  your  suitor 
wears,  though  it  may  be  impalpable  to  you,  is  not 
less  a  reality.  The  exalte  state  of  mind  produced 
by  his  very  passion,  causes  —  nay,  compels  him  to 

(304) 


Bachelorhood  in  Love.  305 

practice  deception ;  often  an  unintentional  decep- 
tion —  sometimes  an  unconscious  deception  —  al- 
ways a  fascinating  deception  —  but  not  the  less  de- 
ception, though  you  believe  so  trustingly  in  its  illu- 
sions. What  is  stranger  still,  your  admirer,  while 
his  infatuation  lasts,  honestly  imagines  himself  to 
be  all  that  he  seems  to  be  to  you,  who  look  at  him 
through  the  idealizing  medium  of  love.  And  the 
universe  holds  no  such  idealizer  as  the  glamor  of 
this  same  love.  Neither  man  nor  woman  is  sus- 
ceptible of  an  emotion  into  which  the  poetical  ele- 
ment is  so  largely  infused  as  love.  There  is  no 
beautifler  in  creation  so  subtle  and  marvellous  in 
its  workings  as  love.  Your  lover  sees  his  own 
image  mirrored  in  your  eyes,  and  is  enchanted  with 
the  flattering  reflection.  No  wonder ;  all  the 
harsh  lines  are  softened  —  the  most  insignificant 
features  acquire  character  —  the  most  sombre  col- 
oring glows  with  fervid  hues.  He  may  be  a  dull 
man,  but  your  presence  animates  him ;  he  may  be 
coldly  taciturn,  but,  by  your  side,  his  silence  is  el- 
oquent ;  he  may  be  rough  and  insensate,  but  to 
you  he  is  all  gentleness  and  feeling ;  he  may  be 
proud  and  self-sufficient,  but  at  your  feet  he  is 
humble  and  self-forgetful  ;  he  may  be  prosaic  to 
the  last  degree,  but  there  is  voiceless  poetry  in  his 
devotion  to  you.  However  narrow  his  nature,  it 
expands  at  your  touch  ;  however  frigid  his  temper- 
ament, it  grows  impassioned  beneath  your  smile  ; 
however  superficial  his  emotions,  they  are  intensi- 

26* 


306  Bachelorhood  in  Love. 

fled  by  your  response  ;  however  great  his  failings, 
they  melt  into  the  background  in  your  sight ; 
while  every  attractive  attribute  of  mind  or  person 
which  he  actually  possesses,  is  magnified  and 
thrown  into  bold  relief. 

How  elated  you  become  by  the  ardor  with  which 
he  pursues  you!  What  obstacles  will  he  not  com- 
bat, what  stratagems  will  he  not  use,  what  victo- 
ries will  he  not  gain  over  u  that  unspiritual  god" 
called  Circumstance,  to  win  you  !  And  how  de- 
lightfully he  fosters  your  love  of  rule  by  making 
you  feel  your  boundless  power  over  him.  He  may 
be  a  despot  to  all  others,  but  he  glories  in  becom- 
ing the  slave  of  your  wishes ;  he  even  makes  laws 
of  your  wildest  whims.  He  is  enraptured  by  your 
most  trifling  token  of  favor,  and  deeply  wounded 
by  your  lightest  displeasure  !  A  transient  smile,  a 
passing  word,  is  to  him  a  rich  guerdon  ;  a  cold  ex- 
pression, an  averted  look,  is  a  transfixing  sword ! 
How  charmingly  he  gratifies  your  vanity  by  plac- 
ing you  high  above  all  other  women,  and  discover- 
ing traits  and  gifts  that  you  never  imagined  were 
yours  !  And  how  entrancing  you  find  the  sphere 
of  congeniality  that  encompasses  you  both,  and 
draws  you  closer  and  closer  in  ecstatic  union ! 
You  are  amazed  that  his  tastes  are  in  such  com- 
plete harmony  with  yours  ;  that  his  views  of  life, 
his  hopes  and  aims  accord  so  entirely  with  your 
own  ;  that  there  is  such  perfect  sympathy  between 
you  !     How   can  you  fail  of  life-long   happiness 


Bachelorhood  in  Love.  307 

linked  with  one  who  is  so  thoroughly  your  count- 
erpart— your  completing  self?  You  never  dream 
that  the  sweet  seeming  of  this  temporary  similar- 
ity may  only  have  been  wrought  through  that 
delusive  magnetism  men  miscall  love. 

But  when  the  inspiring  excitement  of  pursuit  is 
over,  when  the  hope  of  gaining  and  the  fear  of 
losing  no  longer  fan  love's  flame,  when  the  sober 
realities  of  life  take  the  place  of  rapturous  antici- 
pations, when  the  fancied  angel  descends  from  the 
clouds  to  which  her  lover's  imagination  lifted  her, 
and  softly  takes  her  wingless  place  by  his  hearth- 
stone, then,  fair  sister,  prepare  to  see  the  mask 
which  you  resolutely  ignored,  drop  at  your  feet ! 
Nerve  yourself  to  behold  all  that  is  unreal  in  the 
past  vanish  away.  Be  strong  to  bear  the  knowl- 
edge, if  you  have  drawn  a  blank  in  the  great  blind- 
fold lottery.  Thank  God,  with  a  never-slumber- 
ing, never-exhausted  gratitude  if  you  have  received 
that  rare  and  sumless  prize  which  will  make  you 
rich  in  heart,  beyond  fear  of  bankruptcy,  during 
your  whole  existence. 

When  you  pass  from  the  delicious  trance  of 
courtship  into  the  clairvoyant  state  of  matrimony, 
if  the  apparent  sympathies  which  existed  between 
you  and  your  lover  gradually  fade,  if  the  accordant 
traits  mysteriously  disappear,  if  his  fervor  subside, 
or  evince  itself  only  by  a  fitful  fondness,  if  his  ad- 
miration cool,  or  can  only  be  roused  by  some  un- 
wonted stimulus,  if  indifference  close  his  eyes  toy 


308  Bachelorhood  in  Love. 

your  malaise,  or  leave  him  unmoved  by  your  suf- 
fering, if  he  see  you  without  seeing,  and  hear  you 
without  noting,  if  he  seek  any  companionship,  be 
it  of  man  or  woman,  in  preference  to  yours,  if  he 
regard  you  merely  as  a  pretty  toy,  a  useful  orna- 
ment in  his  home  ;  then  you  have  been  cheated 
with  a  blank,  and  God's  mercy  alone  can  soften 
your  desolate  doom,  and  strengthen  you  against 
besetting  temptations,  and  save  you  from  the  de- 
stroying sin  of  filling  that  miserable  void  in  your 
aching,  yearning,  unsatisfied  heart,  with  some  se- 
cret and  unhallowed  idol. 

Young  maiden,  standing  beneath  Hope's  arch- 
ing rainbow,  with  its  glory  reflected  upon  your  fur- 
rowless  brow,  and  its  light  in  your  earnest  eyes, 
you  turn  away  doubtingly,  yet  fearingly,  from 
this  disheartening  but  every-day  picture.  See,  we 
place  another  before  your  wishful  gaze  ;  another, 
as  real  but  more  rare.  Your  lover's  transports  are 
over,  but  they  are  succeeded  by  a  thoughtful  ten- 
derness that  unfailingly  prefers  your  well-being  to 
his  own  ;  his  ardor  changes  to  a  steady  devotion 
that  daily  increases  in  strength  ;  he  ceases  to  talk 
to  you  of  his  love,  because  it  has  become  too  deep 
to  find,  or  require  expression ;  but  his  actions  are 
more  eloquent  than  his  most  impassioned  words 
have  ever  been.  He  lifts  you  in  his  strong  arms 
above  the  angry  waves  that  dash  around  his  own 
feet ;  he  takes  you  as  a  dove  into  his  warm  bosom, 
and  shelters  you  from  the  rude  winds  that  fiercely 


Bachelorhood  in  Love.  309 

assail  him ;  lie  is  never,  for  a  moment,  oblivious 
of  your  tastes,  wishes,  comforts  ;  he  turns  to  you 
with  a  longing  need  for  your  presence  ;  he  is  sol- 
itary without  you,  and  nev  r  lonely  when  you  are 
near ;  your  companionship  which  was  a  luxury, 
grows  an  absolute  necessity  ;  he  pours  the  history 
of  his  triumphs  and  failures  into  your  ears  without 
a  doubt  that  you  will  help  to  bear  the  latter  as  wil- 
lingly as  you  share  the  former ;  he  thinks  you  as 
attractive  when  bowed  down  and  overshadowed  by 
sorrow  as  when  uplifted  and  radiant  with  joy  ;  he 
lingers  by  your  side  when  you  are  prostrated  by 
sickness,  as  gladly  as  when  you  are  glowing  with 
health  ;  he  fears  death  because  it  will  part  him 
from  you,  and  prizes  life  because  you  live  !  The 
great  Dispenser  has  entrusted  to  your  keeping,  to 
wear  proudly,  in  the  face  of  the  world,  the  very 
choicest  of  all  the  earthly  jewels  in  his  vast  treas- 
ury ! 

A  pair  of  speaking  eyes  ask,  "  How  shall  we 
know  when  it  is  this  gem  of  price,  or  its  cunning 
imitation,  which  a  lover  offers  for  our  accept- 
ance 1 "  Alas  !  we  have  no  answer  for  that  ques- 
tion. She  who  receives  must  pray  for  the  power 
herself  to  distinguish  between  the  precious  stone 
and  its  glittering  counterfeit. 


WOMAN-FRIENDSHIPS. 


XL  the  world  gives  ready  credence  to  tne 
possibility  of  friendship  between  man 
and  man  ;  some  people  are  even  inclined 
to  believe  that  the  immutable  attachment  of  Ores- 
tes and  Pylades,  of  iEneas  and  Achates,  may  be 
repeated  among  men  in  these  inconstant,  modern 
times  ;  but  the  devotion  of  woman  to  one  of  her 
own  sex,  the  sincerity  with  which  she  clasps  the 
hand  or  presses  the  lip  of  woman,  the  genuineness 
of  her  self-sacrifices  daily  made  for  a  beloved  sis- 
ter, are  subjects  of  a  vast  amount  of  skepticism. 
Philosophic  writers,  poets,  wits,  have  openly  de- 
clared their  disbelief  in  the  existence  of  the  strange 
phenomena  of  woman-friendships.  Even  Diana 
Mullock,  who  has  written  so  many  lines  of  woman 
which  bear  the  impress  of  truth  and  wisdom,  who 
has  solved  so  many  of  the  enigmas  inseparable  from 
woman's  nature,  gravely  shakes  her  head  when 
she  touches  upon  "  female  friendships,"  and  calls 
up  such  a  doubting  host  of  "  ifs  "  and  "  buts  "  to 
usher  in  the  possibility  of  perfect  love  between 

(310) 


Woman-Friendships.  311 

women,  that  we  inevitably  draw  the  inference  that 
she  sides  with  the  unbelievers. 

On  the  other  hand,  Shakspeare,  that "  intellectual 
miracle,"  (as  he  has  been  called),  whose  seer-like 
vision  pierced  deeper  than  the  eyes  of  grosser 
mortals,  —  Shakspeare,  whose  magic  plummet 
sounded  the  unreached,  uncomprehended  depths 
of  the  human  soul,  reveals  the  hearts  of  women 
united  by  adamatine  links. 

Instance  the  clinging  fondness  of  Helena  and 
Hermia,  in  u  Midsummer  Night's  Dream :  " 

"  We,  Hermia,  like  two  artificial  gods, 
Have,  with  our  needles,  created  both  one  flower, 
Both  on  one  sampler,  sitting  on  one  cushion, 
Both  warbling  of  one  song,  both  in  one  key, 
As  if  our  hands,  our  sides,  voices  and  minds, 
Had  been  incorporate,     So  we  grew  together, 
Like  to  a  double  cherry,  seeming  parted, 
But  yet  a  unison  in  partition  ; 
Two  lovely  berries  moulded  on  one  stem  ; 
So  with  two  seeming  bodies,  but  one  heart, 
Two  of  the  first,  like  coats  in  heraldry, 
Due  but  to  one,  and  crowned  with  one  crest.1' 

We  have  another  illustration  of  woman-friend- 
ship, in  its  consummate  beauty,  portrayed  in  the 
passionate,  protecting  love  of  Beatrice  for  Hero,  in 
"  Much  Ado  About  Nothing  ;  "  and  in  "  As  You 
Like  It,"  a  still  stronger  picture  in  the  self-re- 
nouncing, absolute  devotion  for  Rosalind  of  the 
gentle  Celia,  who  startles  her  wrathful  father  with 
the  declaration : 


312  Woman-Friendships. 

"  if  she  be  a  traitor, 

Why  so  am  I ;  we  still  have  slept  together, 
Rose  at  an  instant,  learn'd,  play'd,  eat  together; 
And  wheresoe'er  we  went,  like  Juno's  swans, 
Still  we  went  coupled  and  inseparable  !  " 

When  the  implacable  duke  banishes  Rosalind, 
Celia  replies : 

"  Pronounce  that  sentence  then  on  me,  my  liege, 
I  cannot  live  out  of  her  company  !  " 

Shakspeare  against  the  world  !  for  who  knew 
the  world  one  half  so  well  ? 

Not  only  are  we  impressed  by  the  conviction 
that  his  glowing  portraitures  of  woman-friendship 
are  life-drawn  ;  not  only  have  we  perfect  faith  in 
the  possibility  of  a  thoroughly  unselfish,  all-absorb- 
ing attachment  between  two  women,  but  we  enter- 
tain the  belief  that  there  are  certain  female  minds 
so  constituted  that  a  tender  friendship  with  one  of 
the  same  sex  is  positively  indispensible  to  happiness. 
Such  natures  experience  an  irresistible  impulse  to 
confide  in  one  who,  enlightened  by  her  own 
yearnings  and  failings,  can  understand  feminine 
wants  and  frailties  ;  who  can  look  upon  feminine 
insufficiencies,  not  from  a  strong,  manly,  but  a 
weak,  womanly  point  of  view. 

A  woman  may  be  the  most  irreproachable  of 
wives  to  the  best  of  husbands,  and  yet  feel  a  void 
in  her  affections,  a  chamber  in  her  large  heart  un- 
filled ;  a  something  needful  lacking,  if  there  be  no 


Woman- Friendships.         .  813 

Celia  into  whose  ear  she  can  pour  the  history  of 
her  joys  and  sorrows,  to  whom  she  can  turn  for 
advice,  and  lenient  judgment,  and  comprehending 
sympathy. 

There  are  trivial  domestic  difficulties,  petty  an- 
noyances, perplexing  positions,  which  no  woman 
of  tact  will  trouble  and  bewilder  her  husband  by 
relating  to  him.  If  he  is  a  man  of  decided  intel- 
lect, he  will  not  attach  any  importance  to  these 
small  crosses,  will  not  even  understand  these  mi- 
nor miseries,  and  the  wife  is  thrown  back  upon  her 
own  resources,  vexed  and  disheartened  by  her  fail- 
ing attempt  to  enlist  his  aid  or  sympathy.  If  he 
is  a  man  of  limited  mental  powers,  he  will  be  more 
annoyed  than  she,  and  will  only  increase  her  vexa- 
tions without  disentangling  a  single  thread  of  the 
fine  web  of  dilemmas  into  which  she  is  snared. 
But  to  a  sympathetic  female  companion,  a  woman 
may  enter  into  all  the  details  of  these  insignificant 
trials,  and,  clasping  a  friend's  hand,  she  may  search 
for  and  discover  the  clue  that  can  guide  her  out  of 
her  domestic  labyrinth. 

The  hio-her  love,  the  love  for  man,  neither  ab- 
sorbs  nor  forbids  the  lower,  the  friendship  for  wo- 
man. They  are  distinct,  emotional  capacities, 
which  may  be  co-existent  in  one  heart.  They  are 
evidences  of  a  rich,  spiritual  organization.  If  they 
dwell  together  in  pristine  purity,  one  affection 
strengthens  rather  than  weakens  the  other. 

Who  can  deny  that  two  women,  through  a  mys- 

27 


314  Woman- Friendships. 

terious  affinity,  may  become,  and  recognize  each 
other  as  sisters  in  heart  \  Who  can  doubt  that 
there  is  a  bond  of  sisterhood  between  their  spirits, 
as  real  and  as  strong  as  the  tie  of  blood  between 
sisters  %  And  if  this  be  true,  must  not  that  inter- 
nal kinship  outlive  even  the  dissevering  stroke  of 
death,  and  proclaim  them  true  sisters  in  the  great 
hereafter  ?  But  in  this  lower  sphere,  what  name 
can  we  give  to  their  attachment  but  that  of  "  wo- 
man-friendship 1 " 


CONGENIALITY. 


<^P|^ONGENIALITY!  what  is  it  but  the  ge- 
||py|§\  nial  sense  of  appreciation,  united  to  sym- 
^^^  pathy,  for  which  all  the  world  is  yearn- 
ing %  And  well  may  mankind  seek  that  inspiring, 
rejoicing  influence.  In  a  congenial  atmosphere 
even  a  dull,  contracted  nature  is  vivified  and  en- 
larged, while  a  spirit  that  has  height  and  breadth 
expands  and  develops  beyond  its  own  recognition. 
All  its  powers  are  vitalized  and  strengthened  and 
called  into  their  most  puissant  activity.  The  pulses 
beat  tunefully,  the  brain  has  a  sparkling  clearness, 
discordant  emotions  are  quiescent,  a  delicious  se- 
renity pervades  the  whole  being,  and  the  mantle  of 
universal  love  envelops  all  creation. 

That  state,  sublimed  and  perfected,  hereafter 
must  be  the  condition  of  the  blessed,  for  heaven 
and  its  "  many  mansions  "  could  not  exist,  unem- 
braced  by  a  sphere  of  absolute  congeniality. 

When  a  highly  sensitive  organization  is  thrown 
into  unavoidable  contact  with  uncongenial  associ- 
ates, a  sensation  of  repulsion  is  experienced,  fol- 
lowed by  mental  paralysis.     All  the  utterances  of 

(315) 


316  Congeniality. 

the  heart  are  suddenly  repressed,  and  eloquence 
itself  becomes  as  tongue-tied  as  Cordelia.  Frosty 
flakes  creep  through  the  shuddering  veins,  melted 
icicles  drop  upon  the  scintillations  of  wit,  until  not 
a  spark  flies  up.  And  if  this  state  of  torpid 
wretchedness  be  prolonged,  it  reproduces  the  in- 
quisitional torture  of  the  iron  cell  that  slowly  but 
obviously  contracted  about  a  captive,  until  his  very 
identity  was  crushed  out. 

Therefore  is  it  that  all  hearts  here  below  are 
longing  for  and  seeking  a  joy-giving,  peace-confer- 
ring sympathy.  Soaie  never  find  it  through  a  long 
life,  and  grow  skeptical  of  its  existence ;  some 
hastily  snatch  at  every  spurious  semblance,  and 
soon  sorrowfully  discover  that  they  have  grasped 
at  shadows  ;  while  the  happier  few  receive  all 
their  conscious  strength  from  the  sweet  certainty 
that  they  are  journeying  onward  and  upward  en 
rapport  with  kindred  spirits. 

But,  for  this  soul-refreshing  congeniality  to  exist 
between  individuals,  similitude  of  character  is  not 
essential.  Mental  dissimilarity  is  often  a  more  po- 
tent agent  in  its  creation.  A  mind  of  great  mag- 
nitude will  stoop  to  look  for  sympathetic  throbs  in 
some  lower,  poorer  nature.  A  weak  or  timid  heart, 
that  needs  support,  finds  congeniality  in  contact 
with  a  strong,  vigor-imparting  intellect.  A  rest- 
less, nervous  temperament  delights  in  all  peaceful 
and  tranquillizing  associations.  A  doubting  spirit 
often    attaches  itself  to  one  full  of  earnest  faith. 


Congeniality.  317 

Thus,  when  the  attributes,  lacking  in  one  spiritual 
conformation,  are  supplied  by  the  abundance  of 
another,  a  harmonious  whole  and  perfect  congeni- 
ality is  the  result. 

But,  proportionate  to  the  happiness  communi- 
cated by  the  satisfied  sense  of  congeniality,  is  the 
danger  with  which  its  flattering  counterfeit  menaces. 
The  mind  whose  thoughts  we  imagine  to  be  in  uni- 
son with  ours,  the  heart  that  we  believe  is  vibrat- 
ing to  our  own  with  a  quick  comprehension  of  our 
aspirations,  our  disappointments,  our  griefs,  our 
joys,  has  the  power  to  obtain  a  fatal  command 
over  our  judgment  and  volition. 

Willis  was  not  far  from  the  truth  in  declaring 
that  a  woman  is  always  in  danger  when  she  feels 
herself  "  comprehended."  Certain  it  is  that  the 
false  and  scheming  gain  their  surest  foothold  in  her 
confidence  by  successfully  simulated  congeniality, 
and  the  persuasive  appearance  of  understanding 
the  movement  of  that  inner  life  to  which  no  com- 
mon eyes  can  penetrate.  Sympathy  is  the  talis- 
manic  watch-word  by  which  they  pass  the  sentinels 
of  Reason  and  enter  the  unguarded  citadel  of  her 
affections. 

To  discover  and  touch  with  magical  dexterity 
those  delicate,  invisible,  sympathetic  chords,  is  the 
secret  of  public  power.  Through  them  the  multi- 
tude is  fired,  swayed,  subdued ;  through  them  the 
crowd  reacts  upon  the  master  mind  by  which  it  is 
kindled  and  controlled,  and  invests  that  mind  with 

27* 


318 


Congeyiiality. 


tenfold  might.  The  lustre  of  the  most  radiant  in- 
tellect may  be  wholly  extinguished  by  the  saturat- 
ing agency  of  uncongenial  surroundings,  or  it  may 
be  brightened  to  inspiration,  by  the  receptive 
power  of  sympathy. 


THE  LOVE  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


HE  love  of  the  beautiful  is  of  celestial  or- 
igin. It  is  the  holy  offspring  of  an  af- 
fection for  the  good  and  true.  The 
myriad  phases  of  earthly  beauty  that  spring  up  in 
life's  humblest  pathways,  are  visible  symbols  of 
the  infinite,  ineffable  beauty  of  diviner  spheres. 
How  affluent  is  the  exuberant  earth  in  revelations 
of  loveliness !  They  burst  into  life  beneath  our 
feet,  in 

"  The  bright  mosaics  that  with  storied  beauty 
The  floor  of  Nature's  temple  tesselate  "  — 

they  beat  the  air  with  iris-tinted  pinions  above  our 
heads,  stretch  out  enchanting  vistas  before  our 
eyes,  dance  on  the  crest  of  the  impetuous  water- 
fall, slumber  upon  the  bosom  of  the  tranquil 
stream,  gaze  at  their  own  images  in  the  mirror  of 
the  glassy  lake,  look  down  from  the  effulgent  stars, 
unfurl  their  orient-hued  banners  at  the  waving  of 
Aurora's  hand,  shoot  their  meteoric  lights  before 
wondering  eyes,  arch  the  prismatic  bow  in  the 
blue  canopy  above,  start  into  life  whenever  Nature 

(319) 


320  The  Love  of  the  Beautiful. 

lifts  her  sceptre,  an  undisputed  sovereign  ;  sparkle 
in  every  quivering  dew-drop,  pulsate  through  the 
great  artery  of  all  creation.  And  day  and  night, 
these  glorious  witnesses  of  Beauty's  all-pervading 
existence  are  chanting  in  chorus,  "  Love  the  beau- 
tiful, for  those  immortal  fountains,  whence  all  pu- 
rity descends,  are  beauty's  well-spring  !  "  And  the 
poet  lifts  his  voice  to  echo  the  universal  hymn,  and 


sings, 


"thus  was  Beauty  sent  from  heaven, 

The  lovely  ministress  of  Truth  and  Good 
In  this  dark  world ;  for  Truth  and  Good  are  one, 
And  Beauty  dwells  in  them,  and  they  in  her, 
With  like  participation.     Wherefore,  then, 
O  sons  of  earth  !  would  ye  dissolve  the  tie  ?  " 


But  the  world  is  not  embellished  by  Beauty 
which  prodigal  Nature  alone  unfolds  ;  her  hand- 
maiden Art  develops  the  beautiful  with  emulating 
skill,  and  when  she  weds  a  pure  creation  to  a  no- 
ble use,  her  brow  is  radiant  with  Nature's  bor- 
rowed crown !  The  vivid  reflex  of  the  painter's 
genius  mirrored  upon  our  walls  ;  the  triumph  of 
the  sculptor's  chisel  reared  in  our  homes,  are  not 
mere  tasteful,  profitless  luxuries.  There  is  a  soul- 
refining  power  in  their  familiar  contemplation  ; 
they  quicken  those  higher  sensibilities  which  time 
is  making  a  constant  effort  to  deaden ;  they  find 
avenues  to  the  dormant  heart  hitherto  undiscov- 
ered ;  they  lift   the  daily  thoughts  out  of  the  mo- 


The  Love  of  the  Beautiful.  321 

notorious  round  of  petty  solicitudes,  out  of  the  mire 
of  commonplace  cares  which  so  quickly  destroy  the 
freshness  of  the  spirit ;  they  fill  the  mind,  through 
the  eye,  with  elevating  images,  with  visions  of  se- 
rener  realms,  until  the  clamor  and  tumult  of  this 
world  sound  afar  off.  Thus  inspired,  Art  shares 
Nature's  glory  when  she  achieves  the  beautiful, 
and  lays  the  offering  upon  a  Heaven-dedicated 
altar. 

There  is  a  class  of  beings  who  seem  especially 
gifted  with  beautifying  eyes. 

"  With  prompt  embrace  all  beauty  to  enfold." 

They  have  an  unconscious  power  of  idealizing 
whatever  they  look  upon  in  nature,  in  art,  in  hu- 
manity. They  deck  the  granite  hardness  of  reali- 
ty with  the  tender  and  clinging  ivy  of  sentiment, 
and  cover  the  sharp  angles  of  bare  facts  with  the 
velvety  mosses  of  imagination.  With  them  there 
is  ever  an  under-current  of  poetry  flowing  beneath 
life's  turgid  stream  of  tritest  prose.  They  are  the 
world's  true  poets,  though  perchance,  they  cannot 
lay  claim  to  the  smallest  foothold  of  territory  in 
Parnasus,  and  have  never  been  impelled  by  the 
stirring  of  the  "  divine  afflatus,"  to  pen  an  inspira- 
tion. They  are  they  true  artists,  though  they  paint 
no  pictures,  for  they  have  the  artist-instinct  throb- 
bing within,  and  a  living  panorama  of  graceful 
forms,  symmetrical  outlines,  and  glorious  scenes  is 


322  The  Love  of  the  Beautiful. 

ever  passing  in  long  procession  before  their  mental 
vision.  Better  still,  they  are  constantly  moved  by 
an  irresistible  impulse  to  make  Beauty  and  Use  clasp 
hands.  As  Linnaeus  constructed  a  dial  out  of  flow- 
ers, and,  by  the  expanding  and  closing  of  delicate 
blossoms,  told  the  time  of  day  as  accurately  as  if  it 
had  been  chronicled  by  the  intricate  machinery  of 
a  watch,  so  the  passing  hours  of  those  who  inherit 
this  beautifying  temperament  are  marked  by  the 
blooming  and  folding  of  life's  choicest  flowers. 


THE  SUMY  SIDE. 


HERE  could  be  no  shadow  were  there  no 
light,  no  eclipse  were  there  no  luminary 
to  be  obscured,  no  dark  side  to  things 
spiritual  and  natural,  were  there  no  bright ;  and 
the  former  implies  and  testifies  to  the  existence  of 
the  latter. 

"  Let  the  night  be  ne'er  so  dark, 
The  moon  is  surely  somewhere  in  the  sky  !  " 

To  discover  that  moon  beneath  its  thickest 
shroud,  to  have  perfect  faith  in  the  reality  of  this 
sunny  side  to  all  creation,  to  seek  it  out  with  un- 
flagging hope,  to  draw  it  forth  from  the  gloomiest 
abyss,  until  it  rise  radiant  as  Truth  from  the  depths 
of  her  fabled  well,  —  oh  !  that  is  one  of  the  most 
joy-imparting,  peace-producing,  of  all  life's  se- 
crets. 

Doubtless,  Dr.  Johnson  meant  to  convey  a  very 
impressive  counsel  when  he  said  that  the  habit  of 
looking  at  the  best  side  of  every  event  was  "  far 
better  than  a  thousand  pounds  a  year,"  but  we 
think  he  made  a  very  low  estimate  of  the  value 

(823) 


324  The  Sunny  Side. 

of  that  blessed  faculty  which  lines  all  the  clouds 
with  silver. 

Wealth  cannot  be  computed  by  our  actual  pos- 
sessions, but  by  the  exorbitance  or  moderation  of 
our  desires  ;  nor  happiness  gauged  by  the  enjoy- 
ments within  our  grasp,  but  by  those  after  which 
we  aspire.  Sunny  temperaments  smilingly  deem 
whatever  they  receive  sufficient,  and  neither  their 
affluence  nor  their  felicity  have  regard  to  pounds 
and  pence,  weights  and  measures.  To  them  Pov- 
erty wears  the  graceful  robes  of  Content,  and 
would  look  no  fairer  in  the  diadem  of  luxury.  To 
them  the  stream  of  sorrow  is  like  that  fountain  of 
Anletus,  which  rose  salted  from  the  earth,  but 
sweetened  in  its  course,  for  their  grief  can  have  no 
lasting  taste  of  bitterness.  There  is  a  clear,  blue 
firmament  in  their  souls  where  the  star  of  Hope 
always  shines,  piercing  the  most  noisome  vapors 
that  ascend  from  a  pestilential  world  beneath. 

Alas  !  how  few  is  the  number  of  these  bright 
and  brightening  natures  !  How  countless  are  the 
hosts  of  those  who  resolutely  turn  their  eyes  from 
the  golden  lights  gleaming  through  the  darkness 
of  life's  picture ;  who,  with  irrational  perversity, 
augment  all  its  shadows !  who,  when  calamities 
threaten,  experience  all  their  anguish  in  anticipa- 
tion ;  who,  when  sorrows  really  arrive,  magnify 
their  sum ;  and  who,  even  when  griefs  are  re- 
moved, cling  to  their  sombre  remembrance,  and 
torture  themselves  with  evoking  phantoms  of  de- 
parted wo  ! 


The  Sunny  Side.  325 

Sometimes  this  morbid  tendency  of  the  mind  to 
"  take  trouble  on  interest,"  to  multiply  its  actual 
amount,  and  conjure  up  its  vanished  ghosts,  is  in- 
herent and  hereditary.  Then  it  gives  birth  to  a 
demon,  difficult,  indeed,  to  exorcise,  for  his  feet 
are  planted  among  the  deepest  fibres  of  the  heart, 
and  his  murky  form  rises  in  giant  strength,  and 
possesses  the  soul  as  a  lawful  home.  Religion, 
Reason  and  Philosophy  must  unite  in  a  powerful 
triad,  and  wTage  fierce  war  against  the  fiend  before 
he  can  be  cast  out,  and  life's  sunny  side  can  be  re- 
vealed to  the  spirit  he  has  enslaved. 

Sometimes  this  despondency  of  character  is  the 
offspring  of  sheer  ingratitude,  and  a  disregard  of, 
or  disbelief  in,  the  perpetual  guidance  of  an  over- 
ruling Providence.  Then  is  the  daily  punish- 
ment it  entails  no  heavier  than  its  sin,  and  the  sun- 
ny side  shall  never  be  disclosed  to  these  unthank- 
ful hearts  until  they  are  cleansed  and  illumined. 

Sometimes  this  mental  gloom  springs  from  pure- 
ly physical  causes.  DTsraeli  takes  a  very  prosaic, 
but  common  sense  and  useful  view  of  the  subject, 
when  he  says,  "  Our  domestic  happiness  often  de- 
pends upon  the  state  of  our  biliary  or  digestive  or- 
gans, and  the  little  disturbances  of  conjugal  life 
may  be  more  efficaciously  cured  by  the  physician 
than  the  moralist."  Happily  the  bilious  mists  that 
veil  the  sunshine  from  the  eyes  of  this  dismal  class 
of  beings  may  be  dispelled  by  a  few  strokes  of  the 
cabalistic  pen,  and  the  sufferer  find  an  open  sesame 

28 


326  The  Sunny  Side. 

to   the  sunny  region  conveyed  in  a  medical  pre- 
scription. 

Oh !  if  we  only  believed  that  on  the  stormiest 
sea,  in  the  dreariest  night,  the  mysterious  finger  of 
Divine  Providence  is  always  pointing  to  some  faint, 
far-off,  beacon  flame,  which  will  grow  larger  and 
larger  the  more  steadily  we  gaze,  and  become 
brighter  and  brighter  as  Faith  takes  her  seat  at  the 
helm  and  guides  our  bark  nearer  and  nearer,  until 
we  behold  a  luminous  harbor  of  consolation  rising 
out  of  the  chaotic  gloom,  from  how  much  hopeless 
anguish  we  should  be  shielded  !  If  we  could  only 
be  convinced  that  the  saddest  event  has  its  sunny 
side,  how  many  hours  of  groping  in  despairing 
darkness  we  should  escape  !  If  we  would  only 
resolutely  use  our  eyes  to  search  for  that  sunny 
side,  how  many  tears  they  would  be  spared !  If 
we  could  only  accept  the  interpretation  of  the  term 
happiness,  which  supposes  it  (in  the  words  of  Di- 
ana Muloch)  "  to  consist  in  having  our  highest 
faculties  most  highly  developed,  and  in  use  to  their 
fullest  extent,"  how  quickly  we  should  be  num- 
bered with  the  dwellers  upon  that  glorious  sunny- 
side  of  the  earth ! 


BLACK  DAYS. 


AVE  you  ever  known  days  that  were 
black?  Have  you  ever  known  days  in 
which  everything  went  wrong,  as  though 
some  invisible  hand  turned  your  whole  life  topsy- 
turvy 1  Did  you  ever  get  up  in  the  morning  after 
the  manner  which  the  juveniles  style  "  wrong  side 
foremost  "  ?  Did  you  stub  your  toes  with  the  first 
step  you  took]  Did  your  strings  tangle  them- 
selves into  Gordian  knots,  your  buttons  fly  off  like 
rockets,  your  hooks  mysteriously  vanish,  just  when 
you  were  in  the  greatest  hurry  ?  Did  glass  and 
china  break  spontaneously  beneath  your  most  care- 
ful touch  ?  Did  the  dress  you  fancied  short,  mag- 
ically lengthen  itself  to  make  you  stumble  ?  Did 
every  sharp  instrument  you  handled,  pierce  or  cut 
you,  of  its  own  accord  ?  Did  some  undiscoverable 
individual  throw  your  neatly-arranged  work  into 
confusion,  and  abstract  the  book  in  which  you 
were  deeply  interested  ?  Did  the  pen  spatter,  and 
scratch,  and  obstinately  blot  the  paper,  when  you 
attempted  to  write?  Did  the  current  of  your 
thoughts,  which  usually  flowed  with  pleasant  free- 

(327) 


328  Black  Days. 

dom,  suddenly  become  stagnant  \  Did  the  persons 
you  least  wished  to  see,  force  themselves  into  your 
presence,  and  those  you  loved  best  remain  absent] 
Did  you  labor  with  more  than  wonted  zeal,  yet  ac- 
complish nothing  1  Did  it  seem  as  though  some 
evil  genius  walked  in  your  steps,  and  flung  stones 
in  your  path,  and  turned  all  your  actions  awry,  and 
made  all  your  efforts  failures,  until  you  grew  cross- 
er  and  crosser,  and  became  quite  unbearable  to 
yourself,  to  say  nothing  of  being  unendurable  to 
others  ?  With  your  equilibrium  destroyed,  all 
your  purposes  defeated,  your  spirits  not  dampened 
merely,  but  drowned,  did  you  not  emphatically  call 
the  day  black  ? 

Such  unbalanced  days,  when  life  seems  all  a 
game  of  cross  purposes,  will  come  to  most  of  us, 
and  how  is  their  unholy  spell  to  be  broken  ?  Tru- 
ly a  momentous  question  !  Very  often  the  pres- 
ence of  some  being  gifted  with  a  strong  heart,  ge- 
nial temperament,  and  sympathetic  nature,  will 
chase  all  the  shadows,  restore  serenity  to  the  ruf- 
fled temper,  and  evoke  order  out  of  confusion, — 
even  as  the  voice,  the  look,  of  one  single  angel  can 
put  to  flight  a  legion  of  evil  spirits.  But  it  is  not 
always  that  visitants,  happily  endowed  with  this 
calming,  cheering,  demon-exorcising  power,  enter 
in,  and  tinge  our  overhanging  clouds  with  the 
splendor  of  their  own  internal  sunshine. 

Oftener,  far,  if  we  would  not  succumb  to  the 
depressing  influences  that  weigh  upon  us  in  these 


Black  Days.  329 

black  days,  we  must  valiantly  take  up  arms  our- 
selves to  war  against  the   invisible   enemy.     If,  in 
the  midst  of  the  labor  that  is  proving  futile  —  the 
duty  that  we  are  illy  performing  —  the  annoyances 
that  are  goading  us  with  needles,  we  could  only  be 
induced  to  pause   and  ponder,  and   look  our  own 
mood  steadily  in  the  face,  we  might  gain  a  speedy 
victory  over  a  host  of  these  Liliputian  tormentors. 
A  state   of  gloom  is   always  an  unthankful,  un- 
godly state.     Sometimes  it  is   produced   by  some 
physical  derangement ;  sometimes   it   springs    out 
of  some  hidden  discontent,  some  haunting  disap- 
pointment,   some  foreboding  of  menacing  misfor- 
tune,   and   sometimes  it    is    untraceable    to    any 
source.     If  its  origin  be  physical,  is  it  not  incum- 
bent upon  us  to  use  every  attainable  means  to  re- 
store the  health  of  the  body,  that  the  sanitary  tone 
of  the  mind  may  return  ]     If  discontent  or  disap- 
pointment  have  thrown  this  sable  pall  over  the 
spirit,  will  it  not  be  lifted  by  the  remembrance 
that  all  events  in  life  are  Heaven-ordered,  and  no 
apparent  failure  or  sorrow  is  permitted  that  cannot 
become  an  instrument  of  spiritual  advancement? 
If  the  black  day's  heaviness  proceed  from  some 
threatening  evil,  will  it  not  be  dispelled  by  the  re- 
flection that  it  is  folly  to  suffer  in  anticipation  the 
anguish  of  an  affliction  which  we  may  possibly  be 
spared  %     If  the  incapacitating  depression  have  no 
traceable  origin,  will  not  the  dusky  phantom  van- 

28* 


330  Black  Dap. 

ish    when   brought   before   the   bar   of   Common 
Sense  ? 

Could  we  only  force  ourselves  to  remember  that 
a  day  full  of  these  contrarieties  is  a  day  wasted, 
and  will  leave  a  page,  dark  as  our  own  gloom, 
upon  that  life-chronicle,  to  every  leaf  of  which  an- 
gel fingers  will  point,  every  line  of  which  we  must 
read  in  the  hereafter,  before  we  take  the  places 
prepared  for  us,  or  rather,  which  we  are  daily  pre- 
paring for  ourselves  —  could  we  only  remember 
this,  the  weakest  of  us  would  find  strength  to  shake 
off  the  incubus,  and  no  black  day,  however  gloom- 
ily it  began,  would  end  in  darkness. 


BASHFULNESS. 


OW  often  bashfulness  passes  for  humili- 
ty— for  a  painful  want  of  self-apprecia- 
tion —  for  a  modest  undervaluation  of 
one's  own  merits  !  Yet  the  self- consciousness 
which  gives  rise  to  bashfulness  almost  always 
springs  from  sensitive  self-esteem,  a  latent  love  of 
approbation,  a  nervous  dread  that  others  will  not 
rate  us  as  highly  as  we  prize  ourselves ! 

What  is  it  but  self-consciousness  which  prevents 
a  bashful  person  from  entering  a  room  without  fan- 
cying that  all  eyes  are  turned  upon  him  ?  What 
is  it  but  self-consciousness  which  makes  him  fearful- 
ly certain  of  attracting  attention  if  he  ventures  to 
move  ?  What  is  it  but  self-consciousness  which 
impresses  him  with  the  conviction  that  all  ears  are 
quickened  to  listen  to  the  unmeaning  words  that 
hesitatingly  fall  from  his  lips  ?  What  is  it  but  self- 
consciousness  which  causes  him  to  commit  any  num- 
ber of  awkward  blunders  while  he  is  speculating 
on  the  judgment  that  will  be  passed  upon  his  most 
insignificant  actions  \ 

People  are  bashful  because  they  cannot  ignore 

(331) 


332  Bash  fulness. 

their  own  personality,  cannot  put  self  aside,  and 
act  as  though  neither  others  nor  they  themselves 
were  thinking  of  their  individual  existence. 

Bashful  persons  never  behave  naturally,  because 
they  are  never  unconscious  of  their  own  deport- 
ment. They  never  shine  in  conversation,  because 
they  are  haunted  by  the  fear  that  they  cannot  do 
justice  in  language  to  the  ideas  which  are  strug- 
gling for  utterance.  They  never  appear  to  advan- 
tage, because  they  are  tortured  by  the  instinctive 
knowledge  that  in-spite  of  being  very  sensible,  so- 
ber-minded individuals,  they  are  always  hovering 
upon  the  borders  of  the  ridiculous.  If  you  laugh 
with  them,  they  imagine  that  you  laugh  at  them. 
If  you  sympathize  with  them,  you  cause  them  mor- 
tification. If  you  forbear  to  notice  them,  you 
wound  them  by  your  supposed  indifference.  They 
have  a  morbid  horror  of  publicity,  and  yet  they 
constantly  become  conspicuous,  simply  by  never 
forgetting  themselves. 

Goldsmith,  in  his  portrait  of  Charles  Mario w, 
illustrates  a  species  of  bashfulness,  which  only  ex- 
ists in  the  presence  of  equals  and  superiors,  and 
degenerates  into  positive  insolence  and  unbridled 
freedom  when  thrown  in  contact  with  inferiors. 
Here  self-consciousness  is  the  moving  principle 
again.  Charles  Marlow  was  frightened  into  the 
most  absurd  exhibitions  of  bashfulness  by  the 
dread  of  making  an  unfavorable  impression  upon 
those  whose  opinion  he  valued ;  but,  being  totally 


Bashf idness.  333 

indifferent  to  the  appreciation  of  a  hotel  keeper,  or 
a  bar  maid,  before  them,  the  bashful  youth,  who 
could  not  lift  his  eyes  to  the  face  of  a  lady,  and 
had  not  courage  to  address  a  few  civil  sentences  to 
her  respected  father,  was  transformed  into  a  very 
monster  of  egotism,  arrogance,  and  impertinence. 

When  we  use  the  word  bashfulness,  we  do  not 
mean  to  confound  the  term  with  genuine  diffi- 
dence, self-distrust,  modesty  ;  nor  do  we  allude  to 
the  charming  timidity  which  flings  a  roseate  veil 
over  the  conscious  cheek  of  youth.  The  shame- 
facedness  of  bashfulness  is  not  diffidence  or  self- 
distrust,  for  it  does  not  distrust  its  own  intrinsic 
worth,  it  only  distrusts  that  others  will  fully  recog- 
nize that  worth.  It  is  not  modesty  or  humility,  for 
it  does  not  humbly  estimate  itself,  it  is  only  fearful 
of  the  undervaluing  estimation  of  others. 

True  modesty  is  retiring,  shrinking,  humble,  but 
it  is  at  the  same  time  self-possessed,  composed,  un- 
conspicuous.  A  modest  man  does  not  commit  the 
blunders  of  his  bashful  brother,  because  he  is  not 
confused  by  failing  efforts  to  seem  what  he  is  not. 
He  does  not  conceive  himself  to  be  a  brilliant  per- 
son, or  desire  others  to  believe  so,  and  does  not 
comport  himself  as  though  brilliancy  were  expect- 
ed of  him.  He  does  not  fancy  that  he  is  of  suffi- 
cient consequence  to  be  remarked  or  remarkable. 
He  goes  on  his  way,  if  observed,  unconscious  of 
observation  ;  if  neglected,  indifferent  to  neglect. 
He  does  not  think  of  himself  at  all  and  consequent- 


334  Bashfulness. 

ly  does  not  imagine  that  others  are  thinking  of 
him.  If  his  hidden  merits  are  accidentally  discov- 
ered, the  blush  that  suffuses  his  cheek  is  not  one 
of  painful  bashfulness,  but  of  startled  humility  and 
pleasant  surprise.  His  manner  evinces  that  he 
neither  demands  nor  expects  consideration,  and 
consequently  it  has  a  conciliating  tendency,  inclin- 
ing the  world,  so  niggardly  to  those  who  claim 
their  rights,  to  give  modest  worth  its  fullest  due. 
Let  the  bashful  man  contrast  his  experiences 
with  those  of  the  truly  modest  man,  and  he  cannot 
close  his  eyes  to  the  great  truth  that  the  secret 
cause  of  his  social  discomfort  is  a  torturing  self- 
consciousness,  and  that  the  cure  lies  in  ceasing  to 
speculate  upon  what  others  are  thinking  of  him  — 
in  ceasing  to  think  of  himself  at  all. 


PREACHING  AND  PRACTISING. 


E  who  can  take  advice  is  sometimes  supe- 
rior to  him  who  can  give  it,"  said  a  dis- 
tinguished author.  Change  the  '«  some- 
times "  to  often  and  we  tread  one  step  nearer  to  the 
truth.  It  costs  so  little  labor  to  give  precepts  and 
monitions  ;  it  is  so  natural  to  enact  the  task-master 
and  apportion  every  man's  duty  ;  so  pleasant  to 
play  the  sign-post,  and  point  out  the  road  that 
others  are  bound  to  follow,  while  we  travel  upon 
the  primrose-path  ourselves  ! 

There  was  never  yet  an  honest  counsellor,  how- 
ever wise  or  eloquent,  who  could  not  have  ex- 
claimed with  Portia :  "I  can  easier  teach  twenty 
what  is  good  to  be  done,  than  be  one  of  the  twenty 
to  follow  mine  own  teaching !  "  Seneca  found  it 
agreeable  to  set  forth  the  advantages  of  poverty, 
while  he  was  writing  upon  a  table  of  gold ;  Steele 
delighted  to  laud  temperance  with  the  fumes  of  the 
grape  careering  through  his  brain.  Sterne  vented 
his  tender-heartedness  by  a  touching  lamentation 
over  a  donkey,  and  the  same  hand  with  which  he 
inscribed  his  pathetic  plaint,  fell  heavily  upon  the 

(335) 


336  Preaching  and  Practising. 

trembling  frame  of  his  wife.  But  do  we  cite  these 
as  rare  instances  of  preaching  versus  practising  ? 
Would  it  be  difficult  to  select  from  the  most  ap- 
proved of  the  social  lawgivers,  and  sapient  teach- 
ers of  the  present  day,  luxurious  Senecas,  who 
trumpet  all  the  charms  of  penury  ;  double-seeing 
Steeles,  who  wreathe  with  laurel  the  brows  of  So- 
briety ;  and  brutal  Sternes,  who  move  the  multi- 
tude to  weep  over  the  wrongs  of  the  brute  crea- 
tion ? 

"  In  sooth  we've  fallen  on  an  age  of  talk, 
We  halloo  to  each  other  of  reform, 
And  make  the  shouts  suffice." 

Assuredly  it  is  not  difficult  to  be  a  saint  in 
words.  Heaven  would  be  abundantly  peopled  if 
its  crystal  gates  new  open  at  the  blast  of  righteous- 
sounding  breaths ! 

Perhaps  we  are  very  presumptuous,  yet  we  dare 
to  cherish  the  conviction  that  there  exists  a  more 
attolent  influence  than  all 

"  The  full- voiced  rhetoric  of  these  master  minds  ;  " 

one  which  hourly,  but  silently,  lifts  up  the  hearts 
of  men.  We  hold  to  the  belief  that  the  most  per- 
suasive, impressive,  effectual  preachers  are  those 
whose  daily  lives  are  sermons,  though  we  hear  no 
homilies  from  their  lips.  In  their  own  persons 
they   exemplify  the  grandeur  of  pure  aspirations, 


Preaching   and  Practising.  337 

the  beauty  of  goodness,  the  nobleness  of  self-sacri- 
fice. They  show  that  obedience  to  the  harshest 
decrees  of  duty  may  become  a  pleasure.  They 
demonstrate  the  value  of  time  by  such  cheerful 
use  of  every  moment,  that  conscience-stricken  In- 
dolence, sitting  in  their  presence,  becomes  op- 
pressed by  her  own  idleness,  and  deems  it  heavier 
than  the  weight  of  labor.  They  inspire  the  weak 
of  purpose  with  reverence  for  the  strength  of  zeal, 
by  their  earnestness.  They  illustrate  the  glory  of 
self-conquest,  by  their  victory  over  those  evil  pas- 
sions which  are  the  "  foes  of  a  man's  own  house- 
hold ;  "  and  prove  how  sweet  is  the  peace  which 
comes  after  such  holy  warfare,  by  their  serenity. 
They  pass  through  the  world  encompassed  by  an 
atmosphere  of  purity  and  power  so  potent  and  so 
subtle,  that  it  penetrates  into  closed  hearts,  which 
no  less  delicate  agency  could  reach,  and  melts  their 
iciness,  and  softens  their  hardness,  and  breathes 
the  very  breath  of  life  into  souls  that  seemed  dead. 
Therefore  have  Ave  more  faith  in  the  puissant  min- 
istry of  these  voiceless  preachers  than  in  the  most 
sensation-seeking,  revival-rousing  exhortation  that 
was-  ever  thundered  from  the  lips  of  eloquence ; 
for  it  is  not  possible  to  deny  that 


"  Nearer  the  stars 
The  world  is  lifted  up  by  noble  lives  ; 
It  is  the  men  who  in  the  silence  work, 
Nor  seek  the  notice  of  the  vulgar  eye 
29 


338 


Preaching   and  Practising. 


That,  like  the  coral  insect,  unobserved, 
Piling  the  reef  and  building  with  its  death, 
Isles  bright  as  Paradise,  and  strong  to  face 
The  storms  of  centuries,  lift  up  the  age 
Above  the  idle  froth  and  foam  of  time.1' 


FORGIVING  NOT  FORGETTING. 


OU  have  wronged  me  —  I  forgive  you  — 
but  I  cannot  forget,"  was  Mrs.  Flintwell's 
reply  to  Miss  Abbie   Lightly,  who  came 
to  her  a  suppliant  for  pardon. 

Abbie  was  thoughtless,  impulsive,  unsettled  in 
character.  All  that  was  evil  within  her  floated  up 
to  the  surface,  bubbling  and  babbling,  and  readily 
stimulated  into  action.  But  there  was  a  golden 
vein  of  virtue  lying  beneath  the  froth  and  foam  of 
her  effervescent  nature.  When  the  passing  excite- 
ment, which  prompted  light  speech  and  rash  act, 
subsided ;  when  she  sat  in  the  calm  seclusion  of 
her  own  chamber,  the  good  angel,  Reflection, 
softly  entered  in,  and,  with  sad  visage,  raised  a 
magic  mirror  before  her  eyes,  and  showed  her  in- 
consequent deeds  flitting  by  in  long  procession,  and 
sorrowfully  rehearsed  her  short-comings  and  their 
sequence.  And  Abbie  gazed  upon  that  reproach- 
ful presentment,  and  listened  to  that  gentle,  re- 
gretful tone,  and  was  moved  to  contrition !  Better 
still,  she  rose  up  courageously  and  went  to  the  one 
against  whom  she  had  sinned.     Though  her  spirit 

(339) 


340  Forgiving  not  Forgetting, 

was  proud  it  was  also  generous,  and  she  humbled 
herself  meekly  to  confess  her  fault,  and  penitently 
to  implore  forgiveness. 

Even  so  she  had  gone  to  Mrs.  Flintwell.  She 
owed  her  a  debt  of  gratitude  which  should  have 
sealed  her  lips  when  bitter  and  maligning  thoughts 
rose  to  her  unbridled  tongue  ;  yet  she  had  spoken 
ill  of  her ;  she  had  given  a  malicious  interpreta- 
tion to  fair-seeming  conduct,  and  assigned  inter- 
ested motives  to  actions  which  bore  the  appear- 
ance of  noble  self-sacrifice. 

Mrs.  Flintwell's  manners  lacked  all  softness  ; 
there  was  about  her  a  hard  solidity,  a  ramrod  up- 
rightness of  mind  and  deportment.  She  was  stern 
in  her  honesty,  blunt  in  her  truthfulness  ;  her  un- 
compromising integrity  often  caused  her  to  be 
rude,  for  she  regarded  suavity  merely  as  graceful 
hypocrisy.  She  possessed  kind  feelings,  and  was 
actuated  by  a  strong  desire  to  serve  her  fellow- 
creatures  ;  but,  unhappily,  she  was  not  blessed 
with  one  particle  of  tact  which  could  prompt  her 
to  use  that  considerate  delicacy  which  renders  ser- 
vices acceptable. 

Her  favors  were  conferred  in  such  a  decided, 
pointed  way,  and  so  obviously  from  a  sense  of 
right,  rather  than  from  tenderness  or  sympathy, 
that  those  whom  she  desired  to  benefit,  experi- 
enced an  inclination  to  reject  the  proffered  aid,  and 
struggle  on,  rather  than  receive  help  so  unlovingly 
tendered. 


Forgiving  not  Forgetting.  341 

Mrs.  Flintwell  always  walked  in  the  straight  and 
narrow  way,  however  sharp  the  stones  ;  no  flowery 
considerations  ever  lured  her  into  some  more 
tempting  by-road.  She  had  no  patience  with  those 
wThose  feet  were  too  weak,  or  whose  evil  inclina- 
tions were  too  strong  to  tread  the  same  flinty  path. 

When  Abbie  went  to  her  in  contrite  mood,  Mrs. 
Flintwell  listened  frigidly  to  her  confession,  and 
replied  in  an  icy  tone,  "  You  have  wronged  me  — 
I  forgive  you,  but  I  cannot  forget !  " 

Their  social  position  caused  the  two  ladies  con- 
stantly to  meet.  Abbie  was  always  treated  by 
Mrs.  Flintwell  with  marked  coldness  and  distrust. 
Her  air  seemed  to  say,  "  I  know  you ;  I  am 
keeping  watch  over  your  doings ;  I  am  guarding 
against  you."  Her  whole  manner  showed  that  the 
recollection  of  the  wrong  she  had  received  was 
ever  fresh  in  her  memory  ;  that,  in  her  own  lan- 
guage (language  so  often  used  by  those  who  say  — 
ay,  and  think  they  pardon,)  she  had  forgiven,  but 
not  forgotten. 

Not  forgotten  1  Then  the  wrong  is  registered, 
not  wiped  out !  If  thus  chronicled,  if  unblotted 
out,  then,  assuredly,  it  is  not  forgiven,  however  she 
who  pardons  with  her  lips  only,  may  try  to  cheat 
herself  into  the  belief  that  she  has  actually  par- 
doned. Put  no  faith  in  such  forgiveness.  There 
is  no  pardon  that  forgives,  yet  forgets  not. 

To  pardon  truly,  internally,  the  very  memory  of 
the  wrong  should  be  gradually  obliterated,  and  if 

29* 


342  Forgiving  not  Forgetting. 

the  stirring  of  some  chance  chord  calls  up  an  in- 
voluntary remembrance,  it  will  quickly  be  silenced 
and  cast  out  of  the  thoughts.  Let  us  not  flatter 
ourselves  into  the  convenient  belief  that  we  gener- 
ously, and  with  Christian  leniency,  forgive  the  in- 
juries we  receive  (and  who  is  so  insignificant  that 
he  receives  none  ? )  if  we  keep  a  strict  account  of 
their  sum  and  magnitude.  Not  one  single  one  of 
them  is  fully  pardoned  until  it  has  been  plunged 
beneath  the  waters  of  Lethe  ! 


FAULT-SEEKERS. 


ST  is  easier  to  cavil  than  to  applaud  — 
easier  to  carp  than  to  appreciate.  The 
voice  of  praise  is  low  and  feeble,  for  it 
issues  from  the  generous  and  discriminating  few  ; 
its  tone  is  readily  drowned  by  the  loud  cries  of  con- 
demnation roared  from  the  lips  of  the  captious 
million.  No  talent,  no  taste,  no  information  are 
requisite  to  qualify  the  self-constituted  censor  for 
his  office. 

* '  A  man  must  serve  his  time  to  every  trade 
Save  censure  —  critics  all  are  ready  made," 

« 

says  the  poet.  These  surgeons  of  literature  pass 
through  no  college,  and  earn  no  diplomas,  to  es- 
tablish their  right  to  cut  and  slash,  dismember  and 
decapitate  the  fair  offsprings  of  mightier  minds. 
Walter  Scott  aptly  designates  them  as  "  tinkers 
who,  unable  to  make  pots  and  pans  themselves, 
set  up  for  menders  of  them." 

In  art,  as  in  literature,  their  eyes  search  out 
defects  alone,  and  are  as  blind  to  beauties  as  bats 

(343) 


344  Fault- Seekers. 

to  sunshine.  In  the  wonders  of  Science  they 
behold  not  the  marvels  she  has  achieved  but  the 
desirable  ends  she  has  failed  to  compass. 

Their  indulgence  of  this  fault-finding  passion 
gradually  renders  them  skeptical  of  the  existence 
of  all  genius  and  greatness,  all  truth  and  triumph. 
They  believe  in  nothing  but  the  earth's  imperfec- 
tions and  man's  short- comings. 

But  it  is  in  the  every-day  contact  with  humanity 
that  this  condemning,  hypercritical  spirit  proves 
most  tormenting  and  most  disastrous.  The  consti- 
tutional fault-seeker  never  makes  a  new  acquaint- 
ance without  tearing  the  unlucky  individual's 
character  to  pieces,  to  search  out  all  its  crooked 
turns,  sharp  angles,  and  weak  points.  If  the  na- 
ture he  is  dissecting  chance  to  be  one  enriched 
with  many  virtues,  —  virtues  which  the  ready  cen- 
sor never  himself  possessed,  —  he  tries  to  drag  it 
down  to  his  own  level,  by  pronouncing  its  graces 
assumed  and  its  goodness  spurious.  If,  on  the 
other  hand,  it  be  a  temperament  full  of  faults,  he 
glories  over  their  discovery,  and  points  them  out 
with  compassionless  zeal.  He  never  admits,  as 
excuse,  the  plea  of  inherited  evil,  the  lack  of  early 
discipline,  the  contagion  of  forced  association  ;  and 
he  never  dreams  that  he  is  prone  to  the  same  fail- 
ings himself,  but  lifts  up  his  eyes  and  hands  and 
thanks  Heaven,  that  he  is  "  not  such  a  man."  Not 
a  foible  escapes  his  keen  scrutiny  ;  he  drags  the 
merest   weaknesses    into    broad  light ;    magnifies 


Fault- Seekers.  345 

them  into  vices,  unsparingly  judges  and  condemns 
the  culprit,  and  wholly  forgets  that  he  is  making  a 
merciless  law  by  which  he  will  be  judged  in  turn. 

Is  it  thus  that  the  angels  with  their  pure  eyes, 
look  down  upon  mortals  ?  Those  eyes  pierce  the 
coarse  veil  of  flesh,  and  gaze  into  the  depths  of  the 
spirit ;  therefore  all  our  imperfections  they  must 
surely  see  ;  but  upon  these  their  holy  contempla- 
tion never  dwells.  They  seek  out  the  hidden 
gems  of  the  mind,  and  toilingly  remove  the  sur- 
rounding ore  of  evil,  and  gently  polish  the  least 
valuable  jewel,  with  the  attrition  of  circumstance, 
until  all  its  sparkle  is  developed.  They  search 
out  and  foster  every  little,  weak,  struggling  germ 
of  goodness,  give  it  the  sunshine  of  their  celestial 
smiles,  and  when  it  droops,  as  though  about  to  die, 
pour  upon  it  the  refreshing  rain  of  their  pitying 
tears.  They  look  upon  a  man's  virtues  as  the 
Heaven-ordered  flowers  in  the  garden  of  his  heart, 
on  his  faults,  as  the  weeds,  sown  by  an  enemy,  that 
must  be  rooted  out  with  tenderest  hands,  for  fear 
that  some  delicate  violet  of  promise  may  be 
plucked  up  with  the  nightshade  beside  which  it 
grew. 

Should  it  not  be  the  perpetual  aspiration  of  that 
man  who  hopes  to  associate  with  angels  hereafter, 
to  make  this,  his  preparatory  life,  approach  as 
nearly  as  possible  to  the  lives  of  the  wished-for 
companions  of  his  future  ?  If  he  would  cultivate 
the  angelic  within  himself  (which  alone  can  bring 


346 


Fault- Seekers. 


him  in  communion  with  angelic  existences),  he 
must  cast  out  the  spirit  of  fault-seeking,  and  sub- 
stitute in  its  place  that  loving  gaze  which  beholds 
the  least  precious  gem  of  worth,  though  buried 
deep  beneath  beneath  the  mire  of  impurity  —  that 
holy  vision  which  discovers  the  feeblest  shoot  of 
virtue,  though  overshadowed  by  the 
weeds  of  folly. 


flaunting 


BOOKS. 


Y   library   was  dukedom  large  enough," 
said   the    majestic  Prospero  ;    and  to   a 
true  lover  of  books  a  choice  library  is  a 
kingdom  of   countless   opulence  and  measureless 
extent.     At  the  feet  of  its  sovereign  a  Golconda 
opens,  and  from  its  teeming  mines  he  may  gather 
gems  of  knowledge  to  circle  his  own  brow  with  a' 
diadem  more  lustrous  than  the  crowns  of  princes. 
No  wizard's  wand  in  olden  days  ever  wrought 
such  marvels  as   the   mighty   conjuring   of  quaint 
John  Guttenberg's  unsightly  types  !     As  we  gaze 
upon  the  transcript  of  master  minds,  spread  before 
us  by  their  dark  impress,  what  spectral  forms  start 
from  the  magic  pages  !     The  solitary  room  is  peo- 
pled with  shapes  that  came  not  in  at  the  doors. 
The    great  man,  whose  bones  lie    mouldering   in 
yonder    churchyard,  stands  beside  us,  a  dear,  fa- 
miliar friend.     The  buried  beauty  floods  the  cham- 
ber with  the  golden  radiance  of  her  smile.     Elec- 
tric flashes  of  wit  play  around  us  from  mouths  that 
have   long   been  flesliless.     The  silence    is  made 
musical  with  tones  of  pathos,  of  mirth,  of  counsel, 

(347) 


348  Books. 

of  approval,  all  issuing  from  those  living  leaves. 
The  poet  says,  "  aspire  !  "  the  sage,  "  be  wise!"  the 
martyr,  "  be  heroic  !  "  the  divine,  "  be  humble  !  " 
Bare  walls  are  suddenly  hung  with  glowing  pic- 
tures of  human  life.  Time  and  space  are  annihi- 
lated. A  gentle  companion  softly  takes  our  hand 
in  his,  and  leads  us  over  mountains  and  across 
seas,  up  dizzy  heights,  down  cavernous  abysses, 
through  labyrinthine  gardens,  into  loathsome  dun- 
geons ;  nay,  he  even  soars  with  us  to  the  pearly 
gates,  beyond  the  blue  expanse,  and  reveals  a 
momentary  glimpse  of  the  celestial  realms  they 
inclose. 

It  may  be  that  we  opened  the  volume  whence 
all  this  enchantment  comes  forth,  weary  and  dis- 
heartened, and  seeing  only  the  dark  and  tangled 
threads  in  the  web  of  life  ;  but  we  close  it,  after 
that  strange  wandering,  that  mysterious  commun- 
ing, refreshed  and  strengthened.  Some  of  the 
ends  of  the  knotted  skein  have  been  found,  and 
the  shapes  they  were  designed  to  broider  upon 
Fate's  tapestry  are  discovered.  We  have  assumed 
a  new  armor  of  courage,  while  consorting  with 
courageous  spirits.  We  grow  valiant  for  life's 
battle,  because  we  have  witnessed  victories  and 
talked  with  conquerors. 

Benjamin  Franklin,  when  he  was  a  boy,  met 
with  a  book  entitled  "  Essays  to  do  Good ;  "  of 
which  he  says,  ''  it  gave  me  such  a  turn  of  think- 
ing as  to  have  an  influence  on  my  conduct  through 


Books.  349 

life ;  for  I  have  always  set  a  greater  value  on  the 
character  of  a  doer  of  good  than  any  other  kind  of 
reputation ;  and,  if  I  have  been  a  useful  citizen, 
the  public  owes  the  advantage  of  it  to  that  book." 
There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  lives  of  thousands 
are  influenced  by  the  books  they  peruse  at  a  period 
when  the  mind  is  like  an  unwritten  page,  and  of 
wax-like  impressibility.  A  breath  from  some 
chance  volume  may  fill  the  sails  of  the  human 
ship,  just  launched  on  the  broad  ocean  of  exist- 
ence, and  give  the  first  impetus  towards  a  harbor 
of  safety  or  the  engulfing  maelstrom. 

O,  how  often  have  the  pure  lips  of  maidenhood 
quaffed  from  the  Circe- cup  of  an  evil  book  until 
the  entrancing  poison  coursed  through  young  veins 
beyond  the  power  of  antidote,  and  the  health  of 
the  spirit  was  hopelessly  broken  !  Give  us,  then, 
fearless  and  honest  critics,  who  will  distinguish  the 
fair-seeming  nightshade  from  the  innocent  flowers 
of  fiction.  Let  the  Censor's  broad  fan  diligently 
winnow  away  the  light  and  profitless  chaff  of  lite- 
rature, and  disclose  the  wholesome  wheaten  treas- 
ure beneath,  which  yields  fit  nourishment  for  the 
expanding  intellect.  He  who  performs  this  sacred 
duty,  achieves  a  double  good,  for  he  surely  in- 
creases our  reverence  for  books  ;  and  can  we  revere 
them  too  much,  when  our  very  religion  comes  to 
us  embalmed  in  the  holy  pages  of  an  inspired 
volume  % 

30 


LONG  ENGAGEMENTS. 


TIEN  the  heart  surrenders,  confirm  the 
blushing  promise  quickly  at  the  altar's 
foot !  "  is  the  adjuration  of  every  enam- 
ored suitor,  eager  for  the  climax  of  the  wedding- 
ring. 

But  the  maiden  who  reflects  will  respond  with 
no  hasty  "  amen  "  to  that  fond  prayer.  Reflects? 
does  not  King  Oberon  still  walk  the  earth,  per- 
forming as  fantastic  and  amazing  feats  with  his 
magical  flower  as  in  the  days  of  Bully  Bottom  ? 
And  did  woman  ever  reflect  after  the  fairy  monarch 
had  stolen  upon  her  slumbers  and  pressed  the 
juice  of  his  purple  blossom  upon  her  folded  lids  1 
The  portals  of  her  heart  open  with  her  eyes,  when 
the  latter  have  once  received  that  mystic  flower's 
touch,  and  the  eyes  take  in  and  the  heart  en- 
thrones the  being  first  looked  upon.  Let  him 
wear  what  shape  he  may,  he  is  transformed  and 
glorified  to  her  vision  by  Love's  glamor.  That 
moment  Reason  is  unceremoniously  thrust  out  of 
doors.  In  vain  she  clamors  to  be  heard,  and 
warns  the  infatuated  fair  one  against  precipitancy  ; 

(350) 


Long  Engagements.  351 

in  vain  she  reminds  her  that  her  happiness  is 
more  easily  perilled  than  man's  ;  that  her  suscepti- 
bilities are  keener,  that  her  sufferings  will  be 
greater,  that  her  risks  are  a  thousand-fold  more 
numerous.  Love  fashions  a  fool's-cap  out  of  his 
madrigals  to  bind  it  upon  Reason's  brow,  and  from 
that  hour  she  passes  for  Folly. 

Goldsmith's  "  Citizen  of  the  World "  quaintly 
remarks  that  "  marriage  has  been  compared  to  a 
game  of  skill  for  life  ;  it  is  generous,  then,  in  both 
parties  to  declare  that  they  are  sharpers  in  the  be- 
ginning. In  England,  I  am  told,  both  sides  use 
every  art  to  conceal  their  defects  from  each  other 
before  marriage,  and  the  rest  of  their  lives  may  be 
regarded  as  doing  penance  for  their  former  dissim- 
ulation." 

Is  this  a  malicious  slander  or  a  rudely-expressed 
truth  1  Are  not  lovers,  all  the  world  over,  zeal- 
ously engaged  in  cheating  each  other  l  Does  not 
the  very  state  of  mental  exaltation,  produced  by  an 
absorbing  affection  give  birth  to  unpremeditated 
deception  1  Nay,  has  not  love,  in  the  dawn  of  its 
existence,  a  beautifying  influence  upon  the  whole 
constitution  of  man's  soul  ?  Are  not  common- 
place minds  elevated  and  rendered  poetic  by  its  re- 
fining power  ]  What,  then,  must  be  its  effect 
upon  spirits  of  finer  mould! 

The  period  of  an  open,  prosperous  betrothal  is 
the  blossoming  season  of  life.  The  sun  of  a  pure 
passion  calls  forth  the  fairest  flowers  upon  every 


352  Long  Engagements. 

tree,  and  the  air  is  filled  with  the  melody  of  birds 
carolling  joyful  promises  from  the  branches.  In 
the  sunshine  of  bright  illusions,  the  exhilarating 
atmosphere  of  alternate  hopes  and  fears,  the 
heart  glows  and  swells  and  takes  in  all  creation 
with  unwonted  tenderness ;  the  dullest  prospects 
are  tinged  with  orient  hues  ;  the  simplest  inci- 
dents communicate  a  thrill  of  joy  ;  Nature  puts  on 
her  gala  dress  to  welcome  the  enamored  pair 
wherever  they  wander,  and  shakes  down  odorous 
tributes  upon  their  heads  from  every  bough. 

And  it  is  well.  It  is  better  for  the  soul,  even 
when  love  is  misplaced,  to  give  a  boundless  devo- 
tion, than  to  entertain  a  tame  affection  for  an  ob- 
ject worthy  of  the  whole  wealth  of  the  heart. 

The  man  of  her  choice  is  always  a  hero  to  a 
woman  who  loves  heartily  ;  and  her  fond  fancy  in- 
vests him  with  an  abundance  of  captivating  attri- 
butes, which  possibly  have  not  the  most  shadowy 
existence  out  of  her  imagination.  On  the  other 
hand  Shakspeare  tells  us  that  to  men  "  women  are 
angels  wooing."  But  O  !  the  bitter  disenchant- 
ment if,  in  the  glare  of  Hymen's  torch,  the  ideal 
charms  vanish  away,  the  mantle  of  glory  falls  from 
the  hero's  shoulders,  and  the  "  angel "  at  whose 
shrine  the  lover  devoutly  worshipped,  stands 
before  him  a  most  terrestrial  being,  full  of  failings, 
wants,  caprices,  inconsistencies ! 

Unconsciously  his  eyes  must  then  forget 


Long  Engagements.  353 

"  The  gentle  ray 
They  wore  in  courtship's  smiling  day  "  — 

his  voice  must  lose 

"  The  tones  that  shed 
A  tenderness  round  all  they  said"  — 

the  roses  of  her  bridal  chaplet  must  either  and 
leave  a  martyr's  crown  of  thorns  upon  the  brow 
they  encircled. 

The  probation  of  a  long  engagement  is  the 
surest  talisman  against  this  rude  dissolving  of  the 
spell  that  surrounds  lovers.  During  the  interval 
their  various  phases  of  character  are  revealed  by 
unforeseen  chances  —  by  life's  inevitable  muta- 
tions ;  and,  being  discovered  at  this  blissful  period 
when  no  life-shackle  makes  endurance  compulsory, 
even  grave  faults  and  temper-trying  peculiarities 
are  readily  tolerated  and  excused.  Mental  angu- 
larities are  worn  away  and  rounded  off  to  a  grace- 
ful smoothness,  by  the  attrition  of  constant  associa- 
tion. Their  souls  become  attuned  to  the  same 
key.  The  indispensable  lesson  of  mutual  forbear- 
ance is  conned  betimes.  Love  has  leisure  allowed 
him  to  build  his  temple  upon  the  rock  of  perfect 
trust  which  no  storm  can  shake.  The  flashing 
flame  of  enthusiam,  by  which  its  shrine  was  illum- 
ined at  consecration,  is  gradually  replaced  by  that 
steady,  holy  light,  which  fiercest  gales  cannot  ex- 
tinguish.     Good    spirits    have    whispered   to    the 

30* 


354  Long  Engagements. 

wife-elect  that  she  will  need  Martha's  executive 
hands,  and  Mary's  appreciating  soul,  to  keep  those 
altars  swept  and  garnished,  and  have  murmured  in 
her  partner's  ear  that  he  must  reigD  within  those 
walls  with  Solomon's  wisdom  and  Jacob's  patience. 
Thus  the  prolonged  betrothal  is  often  the  tuneful 
prelude  to  a  harmonious  union,  with  no  harsh  dis- 
cords to  disturb  its  life-long  melody. 


PERILS  OF  PROSPERITY. 


ERILS  of  prosperity !  "  Oh,  all  very 
fine  !  but  I  should  like  to  experience 
those  perils  a  little,"  cries  an  incredulous 
young  friend,  quoting  from  that  precocious  juve- 
nile who  made  the  same  answer  to  his  mother, 
when  she  told  him  that  he  must  abstain  from  cer- 
tain amusements  which  she  accounted  full  of  sin 
and  peril. 

We  all  want  to  experience  alluring  perils  for 
ourselves,  especially  those  of  prosperity.  Seem- 
ingly, they  must  be  very  pleasant  to  encounter. 
Who  denies  that  they  are]  But  even  the  sense  of 
long-protracted  pleasure  palls  and  wearies.  Unin- 
terrupted prosperity  tries  the  spirit  more  severely 
than  continuous  adversity.  You  shake  your  curly 
head,  youthful  doubter.  You  cannot  believe  that 
those  fair-seeming  apples  which  you  hunger  to 
taste,  may,  like  those  gathered  on  the  Dead  Sea 
shore,  leave  only  ashes  upon  your  eager  lips.  Yet 
we  give  you  high  authority  for  our  assertion. 
Listen  to  what  Jeremy  Taylor  said  :  "  No  man  is 
more   miserable  than  he   that  hath  no  adversity  ; 

(355) 


356  Perils  of  Prosperity. 

that  man  is  not  tried  whether  he  be  good  or  bad  ; 
and  God  never  crowns,  those  virtues  which  are 
only  faculties  and  dispositions." 

It  is  indisputable  that  those  individuals  who 
have  been  permitted  a  long  period  of  unshadowed 
prosperity,  seldom  prize  their  own  rich  store — are 
seldom  conscious  of  its  opulence  —  are  often  as 
poor  in  real  enjoyment,  (we  might  say  poorer)  than 
those  who  have  known  great  reverses.  Shak- 
speare  tells  us  "  they  are  as  sick  that  surfeit  with 
too  much,  as  they  that  starve  with  nothing ;  "  and, 
in  truth,  they  lose  the  appetite,  and  the  power  of 
tasting,  which  gives  to  the  hungry  man's  simplest 
food  its  keen  relish. 

Let  the  sun  always  shine  and  the  tired  eye  will 
soon  be  dazzled  by  its  ceaseless  glare,  and  be 
blinded  to  objects  rendered  beautiful  by  its  radi- 
ance. "  The  rays  of  happiness,  like  the  light,  are 
colorless  when  unbroken,"  writes  Longfellow. 
Untempered  sunshine  withers  the  fruits  of  the  in- 
tellect, as  of  the  orchard.  Clouds,  and  cooling 
shadows,  and  refreshing  rain,  are  as  needful  for 
mental  as  for  natural  growth.  Without  them  the 
soil  is  parched  and  hardened,  and  its  fairest  prod- 
ucts wither.  Ambition  is  dwarfed  by  prosperity, 
which  leaves  nothing  to  seek,  nothing  to  desire. 
The  energies  droop  like  wilted  leaves.  The  soul 
grows  lethargic  and  feeble,  and  is  in  peril  of  being 
stricken  with  what  has  forcibly  been  styled  a 
"  moral  coup   de  soleil"      That  cornucopia  which 


Perils  of  Prosperity.  357 

Hercules  tore  from  the  brow  of  Achelous,  when  he 
attacked  him  in  the  shape  of  an  ox,  and  which  the 
Goddess  of  Plenty  carries,  filled  with  fruits  and 
flowers,  grows  a  very  tiresome  symbol  to  the  sa- 
tiated minions  of  fortune.  They  would  gladly  re- 
store the  horn  to  the  ox's  brow,  if  it  would  only 
toss  up  some  enlivening  and  exciting  incident,  to 
break  through  the  dreary  monotony  of  their  exist- 
ence. 

We  are  half  inclined  to  believe  that  none  of  us 
enjoy  any  happiness  fully,  intensely,  until  we  have 
been  deprived  of  it  for  a  season  ;  or,  at  least,  until 
we  have  learned  its  value  by  threatened  loss. 

There  is  a  saying,  (a  French  one,  if  we  do  not 
mistake.)  that,  "  it  is  very  easy  to  be  amiable  when 
one  is  happy."  A  state  of  unwonted  happiness 
may  temporarily  expand  the  heart,  and  give  birth 
to  that  merely  external,  smiling,  social  complai- 
sance which  passes  for  amiability  ;  but  habitual 
prosperity  is  not  calculated  to  foster  the  sympa- 
thetic tenderness  which  deserves  the  name  of  ami- 
ability. Prosperity  is  apt  to  render  us  selfish,  and 
unaware  of,  and  uncareful  for,  the  ills  and  priva- 
tions of  others.  This  is  partly  because  we  do  not 
comprehend  ;  we  are  not  impressed  by  the  con- 
templation of  evils  we  have  not  ourselves  endured. 
We  see  them  only  as  in  a  picture  —  a  very  sad 
picture,  perhaps,  but  one  that  quickly  fades  out  of 
our  memory,  because  no  painful  reality  has  been 
imparted  to  it  through  our  own  remembered  expe- 
riences. 


358  Perils  of  Prosperity. 

Observe  how  seldom  those  who  have  enjoyed 
unvarying  prosperity  are  considerate  or  compas- 
sionate. Note  a  wayside  beggar,  seated  on  the 
cold  stones,  starvation  written  upon  his  pallid  face, 
his  skeleton-like  hand  mutely  extended  for  alms. 
Mark,  how  the  pampered  child  of  Fortune  will 
rustle  her  rich  silks,  and  sweep  her  soft  velvets 
carelessly  by  him,  with  an  abstracted  look,  or  pos- 
sibly with  a  slight  shudder.  But  see  how  the 
weary,  wan,  poorly-clad  seamstress  stops  and  gives 
from  her  narrow  store  a  mite,  which  will  deprive 
her  of  some  comfort  she  can  ill  forego.  She 
knows  the  meaning  of  that  look  of  misery,  and 
spontaneously  answers  the  voiceless  appeal.  Her 
humble  gift  may  be  injudicious,  probably  it  is  so, 
since  it  is  given  without  due  inquiry,  but  it  was  not 
on  this  ground  that  her  opulent  sister  withheld  a 
donation  which  would  not  have  curtailed  her  least 
valued  luxury.  It  was  because  she  had  not  felt 
the  gnawing  fangs  of  want ;  because  sorrow  had 
not  breathed  upon  and  melted  the  ice  in  her  soul  ; 
because  prosperity  had  fossilized  her  heart.  Well 
might  the  monitor-dramatist  cry  out : 

"  Take  physic,  Pomp  ! 
Expose  thyself  to  feel  what  wretches  feel, 
That  thou  mayest  shake  the  superflux  to  them, 
And  show  the  heavens  more  just.1' 

Could  we  still  hope  for,  still  seek  for,  still  pray 
for  this  unclouded  prosperity,  if  we  believed  that 


Perils  of  Prosperity.  359 

it  threatened  mental  paralysis,  which  must  deprive 
us  of  all  consciousness  of  our  abundant  blessings  1 
if  we  were  certain  that  it  would  render  us  callous 
to  the  sufferings  of  others,  if  our  eyes  were  once 
fully  opened  to  half  its  spiritual  perils  ?  Has  not 
adversity  better  and  sweeter  uses  1  Have  not  the 
dormant  energies  of  many  a  mind,  which  grew 
weak  and  sluggish  in  the  Dead  Sea  calm  of  pros- 
perity, been  electrified  into  action  by  the  awaken- 
ing shock  of  misfortune,  the  stimulus  of  sorrow? 
Has  not  many  a  helpless  child  of  luxury  risen  up 
transformed  by  the  imperative  necessity  for  exer- 
tion, until  she  marvelled  at  the  unimagined  great- 
ness of  her  own  powers  %  Shall  we  then  deem 
that  perilous  amount  of  prosperity  which  would 
stunt  our  intellects  or  harden  our  hearts,  a  desir- 
able boon'?  Shall  we  not  rather  welcome  even 
adversity,  if  it  open  our  spirits  to  all  softening  and 
holy  influences  ;  if  it  develop  our  faculties  to  their 
fullest,  broadest,  highest  capacity  ! 


MANNER  MUTATIONS. 


,"R.  and  Mrs.  Lipscome,  to  all  appearance, 
are  a  very  pleasant,  polite,  socially  orna- 
mental couple  ;  everything  pertaining  to 
them  is  as  unexceptionable  as  their  attire,  that  is, 
when  you  meet  them  in  "  company  costume  ;  "  but 
O  !  the  difference,  if  you  chance  to  behold  them 
in  undress  !  See  Mrs.  Lipscome  in  the  morning, 
in  her  breakfast  wrapper,  (not  a  particularly  neat 
or  tasteful  one,)  before  those  rebellious  brown 
locks  are  bandolined  into  stiff  smoothness,  or  cast 
into  the  bondage  of  braids,  and  ere  her  somewhat 
ample  proportions  have  been  compressed  into 
wasp-like  outlines,  and  draped  in  faithful  illustra- 
tion of  the  last  Parisian  fashion  plate,  —  and  her 
mind  is  as  much  en  deshabille  as  her  person.  She 
moves  about  in  a  careless,  ungainly  way  ;  her  ac- 
tions are  almost  vulgar ;  her  voice  is  loud  or 
sharp  ;  her  language  verges  upon  coarseness  ;  she 
is  brusque,  nay,  positively  uncivil ;  in  fact,  she 
might  easily  be  mistaken  for  one  of  her  own  "  hired 
helps." 

But  observe  her,    a  few  hours   later,  receiving 

(360) 


Manner  Mutations.  361 

visitors  in  her  own  drawing-room,  or  a  guest  her- 
self at  the  residence  of  a  friend  ;  what  a  metamor- 
phosis !  Her  manners  have  undergone  the  same 
mutation  as  her  raiment !  Whose  bearing  can  be 
more  decorous  than  hers  %  Look  at  the  graceful 
attitude  in  which  she  sits  !  See  with  what  con- 
scious dignity  she  walks  !  Listen  to  her  voice, 
softened  to  the  low  tone  of  good-breeding  !  Mark 
how  choice  are  her  expressions !  How  highly 
proper  are  the  sentiments  to  which  she  gives  utter- 
ance !  With  the  adornment  of  her  person,  her 
character  is  becomingly  apparelled,  and  both  are 
charmingly  revealed  together.  Strange  to  say,  this 
illusive  sheen  and  enamel  are  such  admirable  coun- 
terfeits that  they  pass  for  genuine  brilliancy  and 
polish.  She  almost  makes  you  doubt  that  you  ever 
heard  her  use  the  unrefined  phrases  that  shocked 
your  ears,  perhaps  that  very  morning  ;  or  that  you 
really  beheld  her  bustling  about,  scolding  the  chil- 
dren, flying  at  the  servants,  snubbing  her  husband, 
and  going  into  "  tantrums  "  over  the  fracture  of 
china.  The  destruction  of  all  the  porcelain  treas- 
ures of  Sevres  could  not  ruffle  those  fine  feathers 
which  she  now  wears  so  complacently,  or  make 
her  forget  the  role  for  which  she  is  so  elaborately 
costumed. 

Mr.  Lipscome's  deportment  is  subject  to  the 
same  singular  variability,  dependent  upon  his  toi- 
lette. In  his  shabby  business  suit,  or  in  his  faded 
dressing-gown    and  well-worn  slippers,   he  is  un- 

31 


362  Manner    Mutations. 

couth  as  Caliban,  oblivious  of  all  forms,  familiar  to 
rudeness  with  his  friends,  and  almost  savage  to  his 
wife.  The  usual  locality  of  his  feet  we  forbear  to 
mention,  and  his  favorite  postures  are  not  suffi- 
ciently classic  to  be  described  in  history.  He  self- 
ishly consults  no  one's  comfort  but  his  own,  and 
when  the  latter  is  interfered  with,  his  indignation 
finds  vent  in  utterances  too  profane  to  be  regis- 
tered. But  when  Mr.  Lipscome  is  "gotten  up" 
for  a  soiree,  lo  !  %the  transformation  !  His  patent- 
leather  boots  are  not  more  highly  polished  than 
his  demeanor.  The  elegance  of  his  attire  is  almost 
eclipsed  by  the  refinement  of  his  deportment.  He 
is  not  merely  respectful  to  the  gentler  sex,  but  ac- 
tually reverential  ;  zealous  in  promoting  their 
pleasure,  and  lavish  of  all  those  petits  soins  by 
which  man  expresses  to  woman  his  tender  guar- 
dianship as  a  superior,  and  his  flattering  devotion 
as  an  inferior.  Mr.  Lipscome's  grum  silence  gives 
place  to  a  voluble  persiflage  which  passes  for 
agreeable  conversation  ;  and,  as  for  any  of  the  ir- 
reverent ejaculations  with  which  he  interspersed 
his  discourse,  when  he  wore  a  rusty  outside,  there's 
magic  in  that  black  suit,  and  those  white  kid 
gloves,  to  suppress  such  emphasis  altogether. 
But  let  him  put  away  his  dress-coat,  and  be  sure 
he  will  carefully  lay  his  good  breeding  in  laven- 
der, by  its  side. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  solve  the  mystery  of  this 
marvellous  mutation  of  manner  with  change  of  ap- 


Manner  Mutations.  363 

parel.  When  an  actor  is  attiring  himself  for  the 
stage,  we  well  know,  that  at  the  moment  he  en- 
dues himself  with  the  costume  suited  to  his  part, 
the  spirit  of  personation  comes  upon  him ;  he 
readily  imagines  himself  to  be  the  individual  he  is 
"  making  himself  up "  to  represent.  The  Lips- 
comes  are  only  players  on  the  world's  great  stage, 
—  bedizened  puppets  of  the  hour,  —  admirable 
shams,  robed  to  enact  the  parts  of  lady  and  gentle- 
man. You  meet  them  every  day  under  many 
names,  and  never  suspect  the  imposture.  See 
them  en  deshabille  and  you  may  always  discover  the 
cheat.  Were  the  characters  they  assume  their 
own,  refinement,  good  breeding,  grace,  would  be 
apparent  in  any  attire,  however  simple,  or  hum- 
ble, or  even  disordered. 


KINDNESS, 


O  do  a  kindness  kindly,  to  confer  a  favor 
with  such  tact  and  delicacy  that  the  re- 
cipient will  not  be  oppressed  by  a  sense 
of  obligation,  is  an  art.  Wherefore  is  it  one  so 
little  cultivated  by  the  kind  spirits  of  this  world? 

There  are  persons  who  are  quick  to  execute 
praiseworthy  actions,  who  take  pleasure  in  works 
of  beneficence,  yet  who  always  perform  them  in  a 
hard,  cold  way,  as  though  impelled  by  the  prompt- 
ings of  compulsive  duty  alone. 

Individuals  of  another  class  bestow  their  good 
gifts  more  graciously,  but  evidently  expect  a  due 
acknowledgment ;  they  have  the  air  of  requiring 
"  so  much  for  so  much,"  and  their  undisguised  de- 
mand for  a  full  measure  of  thanks  often  anni- 
hilates the  very  existence  of  gratitude.  You  see, 
at  a  glance,  that  they  are  laying  their  kind  deeds 
out  at  usury,  and  hope  for  a  large  income  of  re- 
ward ;  perhaps  in  the  shape  of  a  wide  reputation 
for  goodness ;  perhaps  from  the  return  of  some 
greater   benefit  than  the  one  conferred  ;  perhaps 

(364) 


Kindness.  365 

through  the  gratification  of  assuming  an  air  of  su- 
periority in  the  character  of  benefactor. 

The  kindness  of  another  order  of  temperaments 
is  impulsive,  whimsical  and  spasmodical ;  the  ef- 
fervescing exuberance  of  a  pleasant  state  of 
mjnd  ;  a  transient  excitement  which  quickly  ex- 
hausts itself.  Wearied  of  well-doing,  these  uncer- 
tain friends  soon  exclaim,  "  I've  done  enough  !  " 
Enough  !  as  if  a  poor,  feeble  mortal,  though  he 
use  his  best  energies  for  the  promotion  of  his 
neighbor's  welfare,  can  ever  arrive  at  a  period 
when,  through  the  greatness  of  his  deeds,  he  may 
fold  his  hands  and  say,  4;  I've  done  enough  ! " 

There  is  an  old  proverb  which  warns  us  that  the 
last  person  from  whom  we  should  expect  to  receive 
a  favor  is  the  one  upon  whom  we  have  liberally 
bestowed  favors.  And  it  is  not  unusual  for  per- 
sons to  experience  a  positive  aversion  towards 
those  who  have  done  them  great  services  ;  an 
aversion  they  struggle  against,  they  are  ashamed 
of,  they  despise  themselves  for  entertaining,  and 
yet  are  ever  keenly  conscious  of  feeling.  Is  not 
this  very  often  the  consequence  of  the  manner  in 
which  the  services  have  been  rendered  ? 

Nothing  so  thoroughly  destroys  the  beauty  of 
ans  act  of  kindness  as  the  desire  for,  or  even  the 
expectation  of,  gratitude.  And  yet  nothing  is 
more  common. 

The  poet  Rogers  tells  us  that  "  to  bless  is  to  be 
blest ;  "  and  true  kindness  instinctively  communi- 

31* 


366  Kindness. 

cates  to  those  whom  we  are  permitted  to  benefit,  a 
consciousness  of  the  happiness  we  ourselves  derive 
from  the  power  of  benefaction  placed  in  our  un- 
worthy hands,  makes  them  sensible  of  the  blessed- 
ness which  springs  from  that  power's  exercise,  re- 
veals to  them  the  indebtedness  we  cherish  towards 
those  who  are  the  recipients  of  its  use. 

Kant,  in  the  spirit  of  veritable  charity,  declares 
that  the  way  to  love  the  neighbor  is  to  do  good  to 
him  first,  and  we  shall  love  him  after  as  the  ton  se- 
quence of  having  done  good  to  him.  When  kind- 
ness is  genuine  in  the  soul,  when  it  strikes  deep 
roots  and  is  nourished  by  a  holy  source,  there  is 
always  an  increased  sense  of  affection  experienced 
towards  those  who  have  needed  and  received  kind- 
nesses at  our  hands. 

Effectual,  widely- extended  kindness,  does  not 
alone  consist  in  the  performance  of  tangible  and 
undeniable  services  to  others.  Kind  looks,  and 
words,  and  gentle,  kindly  ways  may  be  of  incalcu- 
lable benefit.  Natures  grow  hard  and  rough 
through  .the  absence  of  a  surrounding  atmosphere 
of  permanent  kindness,  and  are  softened  and  hu- 
manized by  the  influence  of  habitual,  persistent 
gentleness  and  consideration.  When  the  angel  of 
kindness  enters  a  heart  where  it  can  take  up  its 
abode,  it  looks  through  the  eyes  of  the  man,  and 
speaks  with  his  voice,  and  moves  with  his  motions, 
and  guides  his  hands  and  his  feet,  and  stretches 
out  his  arms  to  clasp  the  whole  world  in  charity's 


Kindness.  367 


warm  embrace  ;  and  this,  every  day  of  his  life  and 
every  hour  of  his  day.  Good  works  become  the 
delight  of  his  existence,  and  the  very  idea  of  re- 
muneration, of  reward  in  any  imaginable  shape 
(save  that  of  internal  satisfaction)  would  diminish 
the  happiness  he  enjoys. 

"  Ye  are  not  your  own  !"  said  St.  Paul.  If  God 
demanded  from  us  at  any  moment  all  that  he  has 
given,  what  should  we  have  left?  What  physi- 
cal, mental,  spiritual  attributes  would  remain  ? 
Would  not  our  very  existence  cease  ?  Can  the 
truth  of  the  apostle's  assertion  need  a  stronger 
demonstration  than  is  found  in  the  answer  to  these 
queries  I  If  we  are  not  ';  our  own,"  the  power  to 
serve,  the  capacity  to  comfort,  the  faculty  to  "  be 
kind,"  are  not  ;;  our  own,"  but  are  among  the  pre- 
cious gifts  entrusted  to  us  by  the  great  Giver,  as 
the  ten  talents  were  placed  in  the  keeping  of  the 
faithful  servant.  What  right  have  we  then  to 
claim  the  return  even  of  gratitude,  since  we  are 
using  that  which  is  not  "  our  own,"  but  our  Mas- 
ter's ?  since  we  are  only  the  media  chosen  for  dis- 
pensing that  Master's  beneficence  ?  since  we  must 
render  up  an  account  of  the  equitable  and  liberal 
distribution  of  all  that  has  been  placed  in  our 
hands'?  With  the  conviction  that  we  are  not 
"  our  own,"  ever  present,  who  could  ask  a  return 
for  the  kindnesses  he  is  Heaven-commissioned  to 
bestow,  and  which  are  not  "  his  own,"  albeit  they 
are  distributed  through  his  agency  ]     If  a  thought 


368  Kindness. 

of  gratitude,  a  hope  of  compensation,  once  spring 
up  in  the  mind,  the  kindness  with  which  they  are 
associated  is  spurious,  and  its  true  name  is  interest, 
gain,  whim,  or  self-love.  How  many  of  the  acts, 
upon  which  we  complacently  bestow  the  appella- 
tion of  "  kind,"  will  not  suddenly  change  their 
shape  and  title  beneath  the  touch  of  that  Ithuriel- 
like  test] 


LOOKING  BACK. 


HO  does  not  cling  to  the  past;  to  the 
days  when  we  were  what  we  are  no 
longer?  Who,  that  has  taken  weary 
steps  on  the  great  high  road  of  mortality,  does  not 
love  to  plunge  beneath  the  lava  and  ashes  of  life's 
volcanic  throes,  and  disinter  the  buried  images  of 
childhood,  of  days  when  existence  was  full  of  flat- 
tering auspices, 

"  "When  the  heart  promised  what  the  fancy  drew," 

and  the  most  delusive  dreams  wore  the  shape  of 
reality  1 

The  visions  of  the  past  rise  before  us,  softened 
and  mellowed  by  the  hues  —  the  idealizing  touch, 
of  memory.  Bygone  hours  catch  a  fictitious  radi- 
ance in  their  flight.  Their  flowers  were  brighter, 
their  grass  greener,  their  waters  more  sparkling, 
their  gala  days  more  exhilarating  than  those  of 
any  possible  present,  or  hoped-for  future.  If  there 
were  dark  shadows,  or  harsh  coloring,  in  those 
pictures,  they  dissolve  out  of  the  violet  mists  of  re- 
membrance.    Time,  who  flings  the  veil  of  oblivion 

(369) 


370  Looking  Back. 

over  "  the  weariness  that's  gone,"  floods  the  mind 
with  the  reflected  light  of  vanished  joys. 

Few  are  the  beings  to  whom  "looking  back" 
can  bring  no  comfort.  When  life  is  dismantled  of 
the  garlands  of  youth,  the  gems  of  beauty,  the 
drapery  of  imagination,  memory  restores  what 
years  have  stolen.  The  spirit,  bruised  by  the 
blows  of  sorrow,  and  bowed  with  weight  of  cares, 
looks  back  upon  the  days  when  opening  life 
showed,  through  the  rosy  lens  of  hope,  the  long 
vista  of  a  pathway  amid  pleasant  groves  and  bow- 
ery shades,  and  musingly  gathers  the  fallen  blos- 
soms of  the  past,  to  cover  some  dark,  soul-pros- 
trating pit-fall  of  the  present. 

The  frame  may  cease  to  know  the  pulse  of  re- 
joicing, and  yet  recollections  of  departed  gladness 
will  bring  back  a  smile  to  the  faded  countenance, 
a  happy  thrill  to  the  heavy  heart.  Most  truly 
says  the  poet,  — 


"  And  often,  glad  no  more, 
We  wear  a  face  of  joy  because 
We  have  been  glad  of  yore.1' 


We  have  heard  the  love  of  "  looking  back  "  con- 
demned. The  lips  of  the  worldly-wise  have  said, 
"  close  the  page  and  seal  the  book,  and  look  not 
back  upon  what  has  been,  but  ever  forward  to 
what  shall  be."  But  is  not  the  future  corrected 
by   the   past  I     What  are  the  painful  lessons   of 


Looking  Back.  371 

experience  worth,  if  we  do  not  contemplate  their 
teachings  \ 

Nothing  that  keeps  the  mind  impressible,  that 
opens  it  to  mild  and  touching  influences,  is  harm- 
ful, and  retrospection  has  a  softening  power  over 
the  most  flint-like  natures. 

Hearts  that  seemed  almost  dead  to  hope  or  feel- 
ing have  leapt  and  palpitated  at  the  sound  of  some 
old  strain,  some  ballad's  familiar  words.  Eyes  that 
were  dimmed  by  oft-shed  tears  have  kindled  at  the 
sight  of  some  withered  flower,  some  faded  relic 
that  conjured  up  the  shapes,  the  voices,  the  aspi- 
rations of  other  days. 

Many  a  wife  who  has  seen  the  choice  of  her 
youth  lapsing  from  virtue  until  her  heart  insensi- 
bly turned  against  him,  and  the  hand  which  should 
have  been  stretched  out  to  lure  him  back  into  the 
paths  of  honor,  was  paralyzed,  has  felt  her  dead 
affections  vivified  and  awakened  by  the  remem- 
brance of  the  happy  hours  of  her  betrothal,  her 
bridal  days,  evoked  by  some  olden  token,  some 
letter  full  of  loving  words  which  chanced  to  be 
turned  over  in  the  search  after  other  things.  Her 
tenderness  has  been  rekindled  and  her  strength 
renewed  by  these  trifles,  which  forced  her  to  "look 
back,"  more  potently,  than  by  all  the  reasoning 
and  chiding  to  which  stern  Duty  and  rebuking 
Conscience  subjected  her. 

How  many  instances  are  there  of  minds  which 
have  wandered  into  the  fantastic  realms  of  mad- 


372  Looking  Back. 

ness,  summoned  home  in  an  instant,  by  the  touch- 
ing of  some  electric  chord  of  the  past,  which 
caused  the  spirit  to  "  look  back,"  and  thus  attuned 
the  jarring  strings  and  brought  sweet  order  out  of 
the  wild  confusion  of  the  brain  ! 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  and  melting  illustra- 
tions of  the  beneficent  wonders  wrought  by  "look- 
ing back,"  is  given  by  Moore,  in  his  exquisite  alle- 
gory of  "  Paradise  and  the  Peri,"  when  he  portrays 
a  man,  whose  soul  is  heavy  with  manifold  crimes, 
watching  the  gambols  of  an  innocent  child.  At 
the  sound  of  the  vesper  bell  the  boy  starts  up  from 
his  couch  of  flowers  and  sinks  upon  his  knees,  his 
hands  fervently  clasped  and  his  pure  brow  and 
eyes  lifted  heavenward.  A  long-silent  string  vi- 
brates in  the  heart  of  the  wretched  man  ;  he  re- 
calls the  days  when  he  knelt  with  a  prayer  on  his 
lips,  —  lips  that  were  as  sinless  as  those  of  that 
little  child ;  his  whole  life  of  guilt  rises  in  terri- 
ble review  before  him,  the  first  tears  of  penitence 
quench  the  evil  fire  of  his  eyes  and  wash  his  guilt- 
stained  cheeks  —  he  kneels  !  he  prays  ! 

Who  can  doubt  that  the  soul  has  eternal  memo- 
ry ?  Every  man  carries  about  him  invisible  tablets 
which  are  his  "  book  of  life."  The  work  of  every 
day  is  indelibly  graven  upon  a  new  page.  The 
records  may  seem  to  be  obliterated  in  this  world, 
but  every  line  must  be  read  in  that  sphere  where 
there  is  nothing  covered  that  shall  not  be  revealed, 
nothing  hid  that  shall  not  be  known.     But  even  on 


Looking  Back.  373 

this  earth  the  leaves  long  closed,  the  book  long 
sealed,  may  be  suddenly  opened  by  some  marvel- 
lous and  inexplicable  agency,  by  the  sudden  shock 
of  a  life-peril,  by  strong  mental  excitement,  by  the 
spiritualizing  effect  of  long  illness,  or  by  the  sound 
of  the  approaching  footsteps  of  the  great  Sum- 
moner.  To  those  who  foster  the  habit  of  "  look- 
ing back,"  the  chronicles  of  that  wondrous  book 
furnish  a  key  to  the  enigma  of  all  the  tangled 
threads  in  life's  web,  and  the  finger  of  Divine 
Providence  is  every  hour  revealed  in  their  mysteri- 
ous unwinding 

32 


WIFELY  HELP. 


HEN  Columbus  braved  the  perils  of  un- 
known seas  to  add  America  to  the  world, 
it  was  the  white  hand  of  a  woman  that 
fitted  him  for  his  venturesome  voyage  of  discovery. 
So  woman  equips  man  every  day  for  the  voyage  of 
life.  Woman  as  man's  helper  rises  to  her  "  pecu- 
liar and  best  altitude."  He  represents  the  intel- 
lect, she  the  mind-governing  heart.  Power  apper- 
tains to  him,  but  influence,  more  subtle  and  pene- 
trating than  power  —  another  name  for  power  in 
its  most  delicate  and  all-pervading  form  —  belongs 
to  her. 

Sheridan  said  "  it  is  by  woman  that  nature 
writes  upon  the  heart  of  man,"  and  what  hand  can 
trace  such  glorious  inscriptions  upon  that  book, 
when  it  is  sacredly  hers,  as  a  wife's  %  Was  there 
ever  man,  however  great  his  moral  strength,  how- 
ever exalted  his  intellectual  height,  whose  powers 
could  not  be  increased  by  a  wife's  aid,  or  enfeebled 
by  the  down-dragging  weight  of  her  unsympa- 
thetic opposition?  The  man  to  whom  she  is 
united  (when   that  union  is    not   a  mere,  formal 

(374) 


Wifely  Help.  375 

mockery,)  draws  inspiration  from  the  magnetic 
breath  of  her  appreciative  praises.  If  he  is  fortu- 
nate, her  enthusiasm  gives  sweetness  to  his  suc- 
cesses; —  if  he  is  struggling,  her  heroism  in  bat- 
tling with  difficulties,  infuses  courage  into  his 
soul ;  —  if  his  steps  are  dogged  by  the  evil  spirit  of 
failure,  her  cheerful  patience  softens  the  disheart- 
ening persecutions  of  the  demon.  When  he  re- 
turns troubled  and  fretful  to  his  home,  her  tact  ig- 
nores his  ill  humor  until  he  forgets  it  himself;  — 
when  he  is  unreasonable  she  smiles,  unseen,  at  his 
grave  contradictions,  and  allows  him  to  chide  her 
for  supposed  caprice.  She  bears  with  his  failings 
as  no  one  else  can  or  will  bear  with  them ;  —  she 
well  knows  that  endurance  is  her  own  especial 
gift,  and  not  his,  and  deems  his  peevishness  and 
impatience,  when  he  is  suffering,  a  matter  of 
course,  though  double  the  amount  of  pain  would 
not  extract  from  her  a  murmur  or  a  groan.  She 
comprehends  how  much  the  peace  and  happiness 
of  life  —  married  life  in  particular  —  depend  upon 
trifles  as  light  as  air,  and  strives  to  guard  him 
against  petty  domestic  vexations,  less  endurable  to 
some  temperaments  than  actual  afflictions.  She 
never  forgets  that  the  absence  from  its  proper 
place  of  the  tiny  but  all  important  button,  the 
mislaying  of  the  indispensable  closet  keys,  the 
necessity  of  waiting  for  an  unpunctual  meal,  may 
imperil  a  man's  affection,  or  unfit  him  for  his  most 
important  avocations,  particularly  if  they  are  of  an 
intellectual  or  artistic  character. 


376  Wifely  Help. 

Let  the  wife  only  understand  and  have  faith  in 
her  true  position,  that  of  woman  "  the  helper,"  and 
she  needs  neither  great  gifts,  nor  an  expansive 
mind,  nor  extraordinary  beauty  to  be  always  charm- 
ing to  her  husband,  and,  while  she  walks  by  his 
side,  to 

"  Fill  all  the  stops  of  life  with  music." 

In  being  literally  his  "  help-meet "  she  becomes  the 
beautifier  and  healer  of  his  life.  If  the  parasitic 
vine  about  the  oak-tree,  to  which  she  is  so  often  com- 
pared, be  truly  her  emblem,  it  is  because  she  binds 
together  the  broken  boughs,  and  drapes  with 
verdurous  loveliness  the  withered  branches. 


THE  TRUSTFUL. 


HE  trusting,  as  a  general  rule,  are  the 
trustworthy.  Those  who  "  think  no 
evil  "  are  usually  those  who  least  deserve 
that  evil  should  be  thought  of  them.  Ignorant  of 
heart-treason,  never  looking  for  wrong  from 
others  because  never  doing  wrong  to  others,  never 
doubting  because  never  deceiving,  trustfulness  is 
inherent  in  their  natures. 

Suspicion  that  vaguely  roams  abroad  is  the  off- 
spring of  Deception,  hidden  in  the  generating 
warmth  of  our  own  hearts  at  home.  An  uncon- 
scious judging  of  others  by  ourselves,  a  measuring 
by  our  own  height,  and  coloring  by  our  own  com- 
plexion, actuate  the  whole  universe.  There  are 
no  foibles  which  wre  so  quickly  detect  in  the  con- 
cealed depths  of  other  spirits  as  those  with  which 
our  eyes  are  most  familiar  when  their  mental 
vision  is  turned  inward. 

Lavater  warns  us  to  "  shun  the  man  who  never 
laughs,  who  dislikes  music  and  the  glad  face  of  a 
child."  The  counsel  implies  that  mirth,  and  har- 
mony, and  innocence  are  strangers  to  such  a  being. 

32*  (377) 


378  The  Trustful 

Upon  the  same  principle  should  we  avoid  the  man 
who  mistrusts  the  motives  of  his  fellow  men,  who 
always  suspects  that  selfishness  is  the  secret  spring 
of  every  fair-seeming  action,  who  mistakes  cour- 
tesy for  policy,  who  disbelieves  in  the  genuineness 
of  Virtue  until  she  has  passed  through  some  fiery 
ordeal  with  unscathed  garments,  and  thus  proved 
her  supernal  origin. 

"  Treat  your  friends  as  though  they  might  one 
day  become  your  enemies,"  is  the  advice  of  these 
graduates  of  wisdom's  worldly  school ;  but  he  who 
darkens  the  genial  sunshine  of  friendship  by  the 
shadow  of  this  anticipated  enmity,  is  incapable  of 
becoming  a  disinterested  friend.  His  admission  of 
the  possibility  of  change  in  another  reveals  the  in- 
stability of  his  own  sentiments. 

When  we  speak  of  trusting  natures  we  do  not 
mean  temperaments  that  arc  simply  credulous, 
that,  without  reflection  or  discrimination,  impul- 
sively accept  all  offered  hands,  and  believe  all 
uttered  professions,  from  a  sort  of  quick-swallowing 
credulity,  as  capacious  as  Garagantua's  mouth. 
By  the  trustful  we  designate  those  who  are  not 
given  to  causeless  misgivings,  who  confide,  where 
they  love,  with  an  unquestioning,  uncalculating 
simplicity,  a  gentle  reliance,  which  sometimes 
evokes  sincerity  even  out  of  falsehood.  Their 
trustfulness  is  often  an  unconscious  shield,  which 
turns  aside  the  weapons  of  the  wiley,  and  makes 
Deception  blush  and  lay  down  her  arms,  as  a  giant 


The  Trustful.  379 

ashamed  to  waste  strength  or  stratagem  upon  de- 
fenceless infancy. 

True,  these  trusting  natures  suffer  much  in  life's 
combat.  Disappointment  deals  them  crushing 
blows  ;  they  find  many  of  their  idols  made  of  clay  ; 
many  a  seeming  oak,  against  which  they  lean, 
proves  a  broken  reed  ;  many  a  flower,  cherished  in 
their  bosoms,  exhales  poison.  They  shrink, 
appalled,  from  the  harsh  lessons  of  Experience, 
who  teaches  them  how  few  in  the  world  resemble 
themselves ;  yet  their  very  trustfulness  is  its  own 
compensation. 

It  is  the  province  of  poets  to  condense  truths  in 
music  that  haunts  the  mind  with  its  ringing 
changes.  Among  these  haunting  truths,  wedded 
to  melodious  verse,  are  Fanny  Kemble's  lines : 

"  Better  trust  all,  and  be  deceived, 

And  weep  that  trust  and  that  deceiving, 
Than  doubt  one  heart  that  if  believed 
Had  blest  one's  life  with  true  believing. 

Oh,  in  this  mocking  world,  too  fast 

The  doubting  fiend  o'ertakes  our  youth, 

Better  be  cheated  to  the  last, 

Than  lose  the  blessed  hope  of  truth." 


REST. 


OW  does  the  world,  in  general,  define 
rest]  Is  it  not  as  a'state  of  perfect  qui- 
etude and  absence  from  all  occupation? 
as  a  folding  of  the  hands  and  reposing  of  the 
limbs  ?  as  a  waking  slumber  I  Certes,  this  rest, 
when  it  succeeds  great  and  prostrating  physical  or 
intellectual  labor,  is  refreshing  and  delicious  ;  but 
is  it  the  only,  is  it  the  most  restoring,  the  most  in- 
vigorating rest  ?     We  think  not. 

Change  of  employment,  that  turns  the  current 
of  thought  and  action  into  new  channels,  often  en- 
sures more  effectual  delassement.  Rest  to  earnest 
spirits,  to  well-developed  minds,  comes  not  in  the 
shape  of  indolence  ;  to  them  idleness  would  only 
generate  a  new  form  of  weariness.  Pleasurable 
activity,  the  summoning  of  unworn  faculties  into 
play,  impart  to  energetic  temperaments  the  rest 
they  could  never  find  in  a  dormant  suspense  of 
their  powers.  When  their  attention  is  engrossed 
by  eager  pursuit  of  some  desirable  object,  they  ex- 
perience no  sense  of  toil ;  when  they  are  engaged 
in   congenial  occupation,  especially  when  it  has 

(380) 


Rest  381 

been  preceded  by  that  which  was  distasteful,  they 
are  resting ;  and  though  they  work,  their  exertion 
fatigues  them  no  more  than  it  wearies  a  flower  to 
expand  its  leaves,  drink  in  the  dew,  absorb  the 
sunshine ;  or  a  swan  to  float  upon  the  crystal 
stream ;  or  a  fish  to  glide  beneath  the  shining 
waters ;  or  a  bird  to  skim  through  the  perfumed 
air ;  or  a  lamb  to  sport  in  flowery  meads. 

That  disease  of  sluggish  and  imperfect  organiza- 
tions, that  pleasant  do  nothing  (save  when  it  is 
the  sequence  of  doing  much,  and  thus  needful  to 
repair  physical  waste  and  exhaustion,)  is  the  se- 
verest and  most  difficult  of  all  labor ;  is  positive 
torment  to  spirits  whose  healthful  impulse  bids 
them  be 

"  Up  and  doing, 
Life's  heroic  ends  pursuing." 

This  unnatural  stagnation  withers  their  intel- 
lects as  a  mental  simoom ;  it  produces  a  conscious 
paralysis,  and  makes  the  struggling  mind  fight  in 
impotent  agony  to  use  its  sense-blunted  instrument, 
the  body.  A  giant  chained,  warring  with  fetters 
that  gnaw  into  his  flesh,  is  as  much  at  rest  as  these 
rich,  exuberant  natures  under  compulsory  quies- 
cence. Their  very  gift  of  strength,  their  very  ca- 
pability for  action,  when  unused,  become  burdens 
and  entail  misery. 

When  it  is  said  of  the  "  blessed  "  who  enter 
that  spirit  world, 


382  Rest. 


4 'Outside  the  limits  of  our  space  and  time, 
Whereto  we  are  bound," 


that  they  shall  "  rest  from  their  labors,"  it  could 
never  be  meant  that  they  should  endure  perpetual 
repose,  and  endless  lethargic  inactivity.  They 
shall  rest  from  their  warfare  against  the  evil  incli- 
nations over  which  they  have  gained  a  victory,  as 
the  conqueror  rests  with  laurelled  brows  after  he 
has  triumphed  over  his  foes.  They  labor  and  are 
weary  no  more,  but  the  rest  they  enjoy  is  congen- 
ial employment,  a  happy  ministry,  an  untiring  use 
of  faculties  quickened,  heightened,  perfected  in 
that  atmosphere  where  no  work  will  be  in  vain; 
where  our  hearts  will  not  ache,  as  now,  over  brave 
attempts  defeated  by  circumstance  ;  where  no  good 
purpose  will  be  allied  to  infirm  execution  ;  where 
deeds  will  keep  pace  with  aims ;  where  noble 
labor  will  be  followed  by  glorious  fruition  !  The 
poet's  soul  spoke  with  the  voice  of  inspiration 
when  it  said : 

"I  count  that  heaven  itself  is  only  work 
To  a  surer  issue," 

but  work  which  knows  no  distaste,  no  coercion, 
no  waste  of  power,  no  exhaustion  !  Work  which 
carries  in  its  bosom  the  truest,  most  delightful 
rest ! 


GOLDEN  LINKS  OF  KINDRED. 


LESSED  is  the  home  that  holds  in  its 
midst  one  central  magnet,  about  which 
thronging  hearts,  reddened  by  the  same 
blood,  move  with  never-failing  attraction  !  When 
golden  links  of  kindred,  circling  that  human  load- 
stone, are  strong,  and  bright,  and  many,  who  can 
measure  the  wealth  of  love  that  lies  within  their 
holy  compass  ]  With  every  shining  fetter  added 
to  the  precious  round,  new  joys  spring  into  exis- 
tence ;  new  interests  bind  us  to  sacred  memories 
of  the  past,  or  sweet  associations  of  the  present  ; 
new  affections  bend  us  earthward,  towards  those 
who  come  to  make  earth  dearer,  or  lift  us  heaven- 
ward, with  those  who  ascend  to  the  skies. 

The  commonest  events  of  life,  events  of  every 
day  occurrence  to  all  humanity,  send  an  electric 
thrill  of  pain  or  pleasure  through  that  far-reaching 
chain  of  kinship,  and,  stirring  sympathetic  pulses, 
draw  the  bond  of  union  closer. 

A  little  child  opens  its  sinless  eyes  upon  the 
day,  behold,  another  link  put  forth  for  tender  lips 
to    kiss   into  brightness,  for  loving  arms  to  wel- 

(383) 


384  Golden  Links  of  Kindred. 

come,  for  swelling  hearts  to  give  room,  for  voice- 
less benedictions  to  cover ! 

A  youth,  or  maiden,  stretches  out  a  hand,  with 
heart  within,  and  lo  !  another  link  is  clasped  by  a 
wedding  ring,  upon  the  kin-bound  chain,  and  nup- 
tial gifts,  and  festive  gatherings,  and  fond  congrat- 
ulations greet  its  admission ! 

The  angel  of  Death  descends,  and  singles  out 
the  purest  link,  and  softly  bears  it  to  a  home  invis- 
ible. Tears  of  agony  must  flow,  and  grief-wrung 
hearts  must  ache ;  but  tears  that  fall  from  many 
eyes,  weeping  together,  lose  their  bitterness  ;  and 
heavy  hearts  that  lean  on  o:ic  another  find  their 
load  of  sorrow  lightened. 

Other,  less  mournful,  partings  come  ;  some  of 
the  close-knit  band  must  make  their  homes  on  for- 
eign shores  ;  but  ocean  cables  are  less  strong  and 
true  than  bonds  of  union  that  no  seas  can  sever ; 
and  rapture  grows  out  of  the  very  pangs  of  ab- 
sence, when  wanderers  return,  with  tiny  links 
hanging,  like  diamond  pendants,  from  their  own. 

Birth,  marriage,  death,  parting,  meeting  ;  these 
are  but  trite  and  e very-day  events,  yet  through  the 
golden  links  of  kindred  they  send  a  current  of 
emotion  that  stirs  many  hearts,  and  makes  epochs 
in  many  lives  ! '  O,  keep  the  links  pure  and  bright, 
however  wide  the  chain,  and  burdens  of  sorrow 
will  be  lessened,  because  shared,  and  sources  of 
joy  will  swell  in  number  because  they  reach  as  far 
as  blood  extends ! 


f".Ssasasssi^M 


Sfe*^  0F  25  CENTS 

TH.S  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  d,^  T°  R"URN 
W.UL  INCREASE  TO  So  C.«T,  '  ™E  PEN*'-TY 
DAY  AND  TO  *i  OO  ok,  JS  °N  THE  F°"f>TH 
OVERDUE  °     °N     THE    SEVENTH     DAY 


.^isnrtirTEir 


LD  21-100ra-X2,'43 


(8796s) 


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